


until two and two is three

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Kid Fic, Life As We Know It AU, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, a bit fluffy and a bit tragic, and a big ode to arctic monkeys, domestic ziam also, there's some lourry too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>But he spends the next morning sipping his tea, watching a sleepy Zayn make coffee while Lily crawls around their feet and pretends, for a few seconds, this is how it’s supposed to feel.</i>
</p><p>(Re: They're perfect for her, Lily, even if she's their best mates' daughter -- except they <i>hate</i> each other.  But life plays out a little comically and a lot tragically sometimes.  And Liam will never get over how much he loves Lily or how much he hates Zayn, but they're all she has left now)</p>
            </blockquote>





	until two and two is three

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based off of the film _Life As We Know It_.
> 
> (and I am incredibly nervous I have not done the film justice and that this is quite boring, so apologies are due)
> 
> I definitely owe this fic to everyone who encouraged me to finish this, including Layne (thanks for the name Lily) and Lynn and the rest of the lovely tumblr people. And a huge thank you to [Caitlin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scottmcniceass/pseuds/scottmcniceass) and [Jarka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinexbomb/pseuds/sunshinexbomb) and anyone who has ever written a Zayn/Liam kid fic -- you are inspirational and I hope I've done half the justice that you lot have done to this genre.
> 
> This is a huge thank you to Arctic Monkeys for their inspiring music and to Fleetwood Mac for their beautiful songs. Title taken from _'Baby I'm Yours'_ by Arctic Monkeys.
> 
> WARNING: This is an alternate reality and, therefore, the laws of adoption and proper processes in foster child care have been ruled out. I do not know the proper laws of how that works, so please forgive me. And for the lack of Niall -- do not kill me.

 

 

“Hey, what about that one over there?”

Liam chews a corner of his bottom lip, half-past midnight with a nice buzz in his system and Jade reapplying a sliver of lip gloss to her gentle, plush mouth. He eyes her with a quiver pulling at the corners of his mouth, inching it upward at the way she’s dressed in shredded denim shorts, hair stretched up into a messy ponytail with knee socks and heels. She’s got a blush staining her cheeks, cigarette smoke clouding their space at the bar, her foot keeping time with the Arctic Monkeys in the background. Her bare shoulders shine under the poor lighting of this worn down pub, some thinly thread shirt showing off her collarbones and soft, sunglow skin like an invitation for attention she’ll never, ever escape.

It’s at eighteen, the weekend before the start of their first term of university and a million kilometers too far from home, that he realizes she’s the one thing that keeps him centered in this slip-slide rush of life swallowing him up.

He swallows half of his Burton Biter in one go, softly knocking his knee against hers while ducking his head a little at the cheap giggle that slips past her lips. They’re just southeast of London, with the sweet chant of _‘and satisfaction feels like a distant memory’_ echoing off the worn wood walls, and they’re breathing in the euphoria of _teenage freedom_ dressed up as a frenzy of freshers blending in with old university mates sharing beers and games of darts.

It’s a dive pub disguised as a university bar frequented by fraternity row lads and sweetly done up girls. It’s cheap speakers keep playing loads of rock music with a mixture of hip-hop and indie music that reminds Liam of the _‘last summer of our lives, dude’_ Andy repeated mockingly under a Wolverhampton sun just before he packed his bags for a bigger city and a better life. It’s got greasy food, a collection of mates around circular tables, and a stench of cigarettes and discounted cologne. There’s a nice air of rioting laughter that matches the acid wash jeans everyone’s wearing, their skin shiny with sweat, and comfy couches in a corner crowded by drunken girls giggling over the groups of blokes trying to win them over one by one.

Jade keeps jerking her head to a corner of the bar, scratching dull nails over the back of his hand to draw his attention. He’s a little dizzy from the _three Irish car bombs_ some goofy Mullingar transfer kid with peroxide-blonde hair and stars for eyes bought them an hour ago in the name of _‘unity.’_ He’s got one of those booming laughs and Liam can’t quite remember his name but he knows the guy loves the Eagles over U2 and he’s awful at flirting with a few of the older girls in the pub and Liam likes him that much more when he _grins_ every time he strikes out.

Liam sighs when Jade pinches his wrist anxiously, leaning over the bar to finish his beer and tilt his head at her.

“Which one?” he asks out of obligation rather than curiosity.

She’s been trying all night, helplessly, to score him a one-off to _‘ease the tension before classes start up,_ ’ she promised, but it’s all in vain. He’s not really interested in the girls with the tight skirts or even the lads with their cut-offs, snapbacks, and insistence for acidic Axe body spray. They’ve all got dodgy haircuts, shiny lips from too much alcohol, and cheap chat up lines that remind him of secondary school and snog sessions behind the bleachers after a footy game.

He wraps his lips around the neck of the bottle while Jade careens backwards with a wicked grin that he’s known since they were kids – sweet but dizzying and a shade lethal when put to proper use. She tosses her head, shoulders lifting shyly before motioning toward the very end of the bar, which is pretty much empty except for the two boys crowded around one cigarette and mugs of cider.

She bites at her lip, wriggling her eyebrows and Liam can’t stop the laugh the burns up his chest at the way she mouths out _‘the one with the nice hair’_ along to the thrum of _‘when you walked around your house wearing my sky blue Lacoste and your knee socks’_ in the background. She grins when he leans up to look past her, stretching out her neck with him. She’s nothing like that girl he dated for three years when they were fourteen and too young to know otherwise – with her big-framed glasses, baggy jumpers, grape bubble gum-stained tongue that she was so unpracticed with when they kissed or when she got on her knees for him. But there’s something still so awkwardly innocent about the way she taps her fingers on the wood, nudging him until he almost falls off his stool trying to get a better view.

The boy is something tragically unheard of – pretty foreign lips twisted around one end of the cigarette with delicate fingers stretching around his mug, eyes like the glowing embers of a bonfire, a thin shadow of stubble, lengthy fringe falling softly over his eyes and eyelashes like a splattered inky sky. He’s got tattoos scattered over one forearm that are more than distracting, a sharp jawline that’s unforgivable in ways Liam refuses to explain, and it’s too hot for leather but this kid wears it like it’s the edge of December somewhere in the world.

“That one,” Jade says like she gets it, like the boy distracting him is so _obvious_ –

And maybe it is, judging by the way Liam swallows slowly and feels sweat prick at his temple, and the race of his heart is probably visible from half across the city.

The smoke sneaks past his lips in a decisively genius way, like it’s practiced and mastered, and pink, chapped lips split into a grin when he nods at his friend, nudges him with rough knuckles that look bruised and scraped. They play fight under the half-sun of light in the pub, laugh like teenagers in the heart of summer, pretend not to know the lyrics but mouth out _‘well you cured my January blues’_ to a set of twins with lollipops in their mouths and dresses high above their thighs.

“Not my type,” Liam says quickly, turning away to hide his blush when the boy looks up with narrowed eyes and a curve to his mouth.

“You don’t have a _type_ ,” Jade insists, nudging him off balance, huffing. “Not since that first lad you sucked off in – “

Liam makes a displeased sound, shushing her because this is still _new_ – the fact that he sort of fancies guys as much as girls. The fact that she knows about it. The way she’s never complained or given him that look like _how could you_ because that’s always been Jade: _understanding when not necessary_.

He shuffles a little closer to her, watching that Mullingar boy – _Niall maybe?_ – strike up a chat with some honey-skinned girl with big hair and an even bigger personality.

“I have a type,” Liam argues softly, rubbing at her knuckles and running his eyes over the water spots on the bar. “And it’s not him.”

“Whatever,” she laughs, sighing happily. “Does any of that even matter when some bloke’s head is between your legs in the dark?”

“Oh babe,” Liam groans, sneaking into the space between her shoulder and jaw, biting playfully at her neck. “We both know it does.”

She giggles, agreeing silently with a nod and a flicker in her eyes.

“Give him a chance,” Jade persists, stealing his beer. “Or _anyone_ , for that matter. We need to get laid before we’re stuck in classes and assignments we hate.”

“Books we’ll never read,” Liam says lowly, smirking.

“Professors that we’ll gladly shag for a better grade,” she adds, tipping her head back for a swallow.

“A career we’ll surely hate,” Liam says like a mantra, sneaking a hand over the rough material of her knee socks, grinning when she nods.

“So let’s fuck someone we’ll forget next week,” Jade announces a little too loudly and Liam ducks away with a laugh strangled in his throat, a flush to his cheeks, and the music taking over all of the voices behind them.

“Besides,” she hums, pushing away the empty bottle and curling her fingers into the plaid of his shirt, righting his collar while winking, “he’s coming over here right now and, if you don’t, I will slide him your number and a latex for later usage.”

Liam chokes out a noise, incredulous with his glare when she leans back with a giggle and half-turns away when, in fact, that boy flops down onto the empty stool next to Liam with a sinful smile on sweet lips and long eyelashes framing haphazardly gold eyes.

“You look like a history student,” the boy says, intensely shy with crafted fingers spinning a new beer between his hands. He arches an eyebrow at Liam, biting ruthlessly at his lip like he’s trying too hard.

Liam snorts, shaking his head. “Kinesiology,” he replies, pushing up the cuffs of his button up, leaning over the bar. “With a possible secondary study in music theory.”

The boy’s eyebrows lift like he’s interested, half-smirking. “Modern Literature,” he says, curved smile thick. “Thinking of going into art studies.”

“You like to draw?” Liam wonders, twitching fingers moving over the bar.

“I like to use my hands,” the boy says, his voice dark and gravel-like.

Liam winces, an accidental tremor running up his spine and he looks away quickly.

Those fingers, calloused but soft and a little too hot, brush over Liam’s forearm and he fights against instinct to look at the boy again, tracing his eyes over the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way his fringe shadows the quiet hue of his skin.

“I’m Zayn, by the way.”

“Liam,” he says quickly, something intensely problematic seeping into his skin when he shakes hands with Zayn, when he feels the softness at the center of his palm and the raw scratch of his dull nails over Liam’s knuckles.

“You with her?” Zayn asks, motioning towards a stealthy Jade who’s pretending not to care but she’s incoherently bad at charades.

Liam laughs lowly, shaking his head and he can’t help but watch the way those fingers play in thick hair, trying to push it back and expose the beauty of this boy’s face. He bites firmly on his lip, considers ordering up another round – or maybe _three_ – just to drown the throb of need bursting in his bones. His cock fattens up naturally in his chinos and he feels so boyish when Zayn smirks, leans in a little.

“I’m alone,” Liam replies, schooling his heavy breathing at the way the lights refuse to highlight the elegance of Zayn’s nearly exposed collarbones.

“Being alone isn’t bad,” Zayn grins, fingers twisting around a new cigarette. “Not unless you’re interested in someone else giving you proper attention.”

“Someone else,” Liam repeats sheepishly, cocking his head to the side.

“I mean,” Zayn starts, tracing his eyes slowly over Liam like he’s sizing him up and that twitch in his cock, the way it pushes at the fabric of his Superman briefs and stains the cotton dark, is so familiar –

Like nights in bed, thinking about some bloke’s rough lips swallowing him down and soft fingers opening him up and staining his stomach in come is nothing like those few seconds afterwards when he’s coming down from his high and the tremble in his thighs just won’t go away.

“Isn’t this what people do at bars?” Zayn finishes, sneaking a smile over his lips, narrowing his eyes. “They find something to keep them occupied, right?”

Liam swallows, misses it when Zayn’s stealthy fingers scratch over his and, honestly, this isn’t how he does this. He’s the kind of guy who introduces himself, chats someone up, finds common interests, spends a month’s worth of pounds on a posh date and long drives across the countryside.

He’s no good at one-offs or screwing a complete stranger or even meaningless flirting.

“You’re serious?” Liam wonders with a lifted brow and slumped shoulders.

Zayn smirks evilly – or _tries_ to except he’s still a bit abashed and his nose wrinkles with his hitched laugh.

“Quite possibly,” Zayn hums, knocking their fingers on the bar. “I’m not against the idea.”

Liam frowns, puckering his lips while Zayn watches and it’s disturbing the way his tongue runs over his mouth in retaliation –

And maybe Liam eyes Zayn’s long fingers, considers how they’d feel over the structure of his muscles. Maybe he wonders how they’d feel in his curls, tugging politely with Liam’s knees going raw on some dingy carpet. Maybe he thinks about Zayn twirling them around Liam’s wrecked curls, matted with sweat, later on after his muscles have gone sore and Zayn’s limbs are a little weaker from the constant thrust of Liam’s hips.

And maybe he knows better, shoves the thoughts aside because Zayn isn’t sweet or even deserving of that kind of attention.

“Malik, you’re horrible at this and the poor kid deserves better,” a voice announces and Liam catches the way Zayn freezes up, shrugs away when his friend drops down onto the stool on the other side of Jade.

“Fuck off Ant,” Zayn hisses but it’s devoid of anger, a drop of frustration straining over his words.

“He really is awful at trying to win someone over,” Ant says, tossing an intentional arm around Jade’s small shoulders, smirking at the way her cheeks heat up with a pretty shade of pink. “And, as his best mate, I must interfere before this goes horribly wrong.”

“It was going fine,” Zayn mutters, sighing around the mouth of his beer.

“It really wasn’t,” Jade giggles, turning a little toward Ant. “Jade, if you’re asking.”

“I’m asking,” Ant says with a smeared grin and a thumb rubbing at her skin. “In fact, I’m properly _begging_ for the chance to show my boy how this is done.”

“Really?” she wonders, fluttering her eyelashes and playing along.

Ant smirks, nodding. “They need some direction on how this goes,” he insists, hailing over the bartender and Liam rests his chin on his knuckles to watch Ant order them a few beers, a colorful martini for Jade even when she insists upon a bitter for herself.

“I’m not the clichéd kind of girl,” Jade argues but takes the drink with a gentle grin, sipping at it. “I like footy on Sundays, I refuse to wear frilly knickers, and I hate flowers on the first date.”

“Good because I don’t do typical,” Ant laughs, waggling his eyebrows at Zayn rather than her and Liam will never forget the sweet sound of Zayn’s laugh – or the way it sticks to his memory better than his stupid lines or his smoke-stained clothes.

Liam leans back, watches the way they trade off favorite films and best desserts, hands casually finding new, unexplored pieces of body to touch. Jade laughs like she does when she’s genuinely into something and Ant smiles around a cigarette, orders them up a plate of chips to share. She keeps biting at her lips while he blows smoke away from her out of respect and Liam hides his smile in the collar of his shirt when Ant looks at him like he’s asking for permission.

“Gross,” Zayn sighs behind him, leaning in until his chest is pressed to Liam’s spine and the warmth is an unnecessary delight Liam’s not quite expecting. “It’s like out of one of those romantic comedies.”

“So boring,” Liam teases, flushing at the way Zayn’s fingers accidently brush along the dip of his back.

“You don’t think they’ll be telling us about their dream weddings and shared bank accounts in a month or two, d’ya?”

Liam grins, elbowing Zayn away. “I hope not.”

Zayn snorts, huffing through a cigarette, clouding their space with Marlboro smoke.

Jade shrieks with laughter and Ant carefully fixes her hair behind her ear, smirking like the open space of an undiscovered galaxy is right before him. It’s a bit telling and Liam’s certain he’s not clairvoyant but there’s something richly apparent about the heat of her cheeks and the way Ant is ducking his chin to hide his grin.

“They’ll probably get a dog and matching footy jerseys,” Zayn mocks, smiling around the filter.

“West Bromwich,” Liam mumbles, grinning. “Sundays at Hyde Park, too.”

“He’ll probably steal my poetry books and scribble nonsense on his palm to recite to her,” Zayn adds.

Liam sighs through a laugh, cheeks tinted at the way Zayn stretches his eyes over him again like he’s hungry for something. It’s an uncomfortable feeling and Liam shrinks on his stool, studies the play of shadows and light on Zayn’s face for a minute to forget the smugness of his grin or the way he’s probably thinking about pushing Liam down on cold sheets and opening him up with a masterful tongue –

And his cock fights against his intention, stretching the cotton again but he knows better.

He did not leave behind a small town, a handful of friends, and a chance to play football at a local university for London and nameless shags on the weekends.

“We could get out of here,” Zayn says, his voice hoarse from the smoke and his fingers curling around Liam’s wrist. “Could suck you off in the alley out back or you could show me how soft those lips probably are.”

Liam blows out an exasperated exhale, jerks his hand away to wrap around a fresh beer. He can see the disdain in his peripheral but stuffs down the venomous words in his throat in favor of spinning on his stool to search out Niall.

“S’cool,” Zayn hisses, lighting up a new cigarette and shrugging off his jacket. “You seem like a _boring fuck_ anyway.”

Liam winces, decides against spitting out anything worth remembering at Zayn before shoving off his stool and finding Niall in a corner of the room with some band drummer named Josh. He pretends to be interested in their lazy conversations about Rick Springfield and the genius of Coldplay to ignore the way instinct is pursuing him to watch over Zayn. He wants to forget those stupid tattoos – because, honestly, who gets a yin-yang and crossed fingers, anyway – and the soft curve of his mouth and his out of proportion jaw and the way his fingers look like they could press along his spine just before Liam would climb into his lap and swallow his cock up with his –

He bites at his knuckles, instead, and treads the waves rocking in his system until he’s too tired to focus in on the music or the way Ant and Jade are curled around each other with secret smiles and risky hands. He folds up on one of those comfy couches and waits until the carelessly placed anger – or _jealousy_ , but he refuses to name it that – slips out of his blood at the way Zayn flirts intently with some dark-haired, exotic girl in another corner with a hand already up her shirt and his lips staining her neck a sharper color.

He thinks of diversions and settles with Niall’s laughter when the music goes quieter and the thoughts in his head go mute against the throb of his heart and the alcohol in his bloodstream.

 

(*)

 

It’s over a year later and Liam’s somewhere between classes about _body structure_ and football training sessions when he realizes, absently, that he’s not ready for this –

Except this isn’t _his_ moment. And this is something he predicted. And this is the middle of April with bright flowers, evergreen grass swaying in a gentle breeze, and strong grey clouds smoking up the sky before the coming storm.

He’s looking in a wall-length mirror in some small church that’s off-campus and the dark hardwood beneath his feet is almost the color of his charcoal socks. He’s fussing with the collar of his tightly fit suit jacket and he hates the color but Ant insisted upon it and it wasn’t Liam’s place to argue –

Not with Jade so nervous and constantly crying over details and fitting her small body into the large expanse of Liam’s arms every second she got.

There’s a shiny line of sweat pooling around his collarbone and his fingers won’t quit fidgeting every time he touches the material. His shoes are tucked beneath a couch in the parlor, his bowtie discarded on an end table and he’s practicing the breathing techniques taught to him by the football team’s medic whenever he’s overzealous or simply anxious about an upcoming game, reduced to large gulps of Gatorade and wringing his fingers over his jersey in a corner of the locker room. His reflection is met by a pair of neon blue eyes with sewn-in flecks of green and a wicked smirk to match an uneven haircut and Louis Tomlinson has been his anchor in this undertow since his second term and a shared biology course.

“Are you quite finished panicking yet?” Louis asks with a tilted head and calm fingers running up the back of Liam’s freshly shaven buzz cut –

He’s still getting used to the haircut and he knows it’s for better performances during games but he misses damp curls falling over his eyes on the pitch or the way he instinctively always flicks his head to knock the fringe out of his vision.

“I’m not nervous,” he replies but he looks like he’s trying to convince himself rather than Louis.

He’s glaring at himself in the mirror, pretending to miss the doubt in Louis’ expression or the way Louis presses out the wrinkles in his sleeves.

“For fuck’s sake, bro, it’s not _your_ wedding,” Louis offers up, shoving playfully at Liam’s shoulder.

 _Might as well be_ , Liam thinks, rolling his eyes at the way Louis presents him a crooked grin and the thunder in the background drowns out Ant’s selection of boring hip hop as choice music to calm them all.

London is some halfway point between Wolverhampton and Bradford and Liam feels the pressure before it comes, the way he knows he’s all Jade’s got. Their mates back home couldn’t afford the trip out and Jade’s adopted but Liam’s family has always been more hers than his. Ant’s younger brother, Danny, died when he was fourteen and his parents shoved off to the States just after he started university and this little foster family they’ve create in London – mainly an upstart group that includes Louis, Niall, a few girls from Jade’s classes, Ant, and sometimes Zayn – has been the only thing keeping them afloat between courses and _teenaged romance_ –

And, no, he doesn’t associate any of this to silly Katy Perry lyrics and categorized My Chemical Romance songs. Not in retrospect, at least.

Instead of commenting, he tucks the hem of his button up into his slacks and pulls his broad shoulders back until the jacket fits a little better.

“Do you think she is – “

Louis scoffs immediately, shoving at Liam and stepping away. He stretches in his own black suit, rented and finely _tailored_ because Louis is nothing less than well prepared for moments like this.

“We’ve been over this,” Louis groans, flopping down onto the couch and rocking impatiently with the flood of Example blaring from the dock station. “She’s not too young, they’re in love, she’s legal and this is not our decision. Jade is very capable of making her own mistakes.”

“So you think it’s a mistake?” Liam squeaks out, spinning on his heels.

Louis frowns, clucking his tongue against his teeth. “Bad choice of words.”

“Horrible choice, mate,” Liam moans, fingers catching on the sharp pricks of his hair. “I dunno what to do for her.”

“Nothing,” Louis says flatly and he doesn’t offer up any explanation because Louis has always been far removed from such things. He crosses his legs with his fringe slicked back and his jaw neatly shaven.

“But – “

Louis scowls at him and his mouth snaps shut out of refusal to argue rather than obedience.

“She loves him,” Louis insists and Liam can’t reason otherwise.

She does. It’s in her eyes or the way her hands fit in Ant’s or the unison of their laughter at bad films or the way his arms fit around her waist at Liam’s football matches. It’s a little heartbreaking like midnight promises fading, like she’s forgotten that they’d sworn to always, _always_ stand by each other in this foreign city with complete strangers and an agreement to support each other through boring courses and poorly written term papers.

But it’s incredibly suffocating in a desirable way, the way Ant asked Liam for his permission to propose, the candle-filled University room with him and all of her mates just on the other side of the door and Ant on one knee and he was the first one to thumb away her large tears when she threw herself at him, choking on a laugh and burying her shameful grin in the crook of his neck.

“I still think it’s weird she doesn’t have a maid of honor and _you_ as her best man,” Louis scoffs, slouching on the expensive leather.

“ _She’s not typical_ ,” Liam says like a chant, turning back to the mirror. “Besides, I’m her best mate.”

“You’re her gay sidekick. She’s Wonder Woman but you, my friend, are no Steve Trevor,” Louis teases.

Liam flips him off, smirking back. “I haven’t decided on a category in my sex life yet, Lou.”

“You might not have,” Louis starts with a riotous grin and naughty hand gestures, “but that _relationship_ you had with Aiden says otherwise.”

“It wasn’t a relationship,” Liam argues, furrowing his brow. “We didn’t even date.”

“You _fucked_ ,” Louis protests, casually loosening his tie and flicking the top button of his shirt open. “You two shagged repeatedly in our university room and I still can’t get the come stains out of my favorite Christmas jumper from that weekend you were stressing over courses and he was getting high in our window.”

Liam blushes an ugly pink, ducks his head and pretends to fix his shirt in the mirror. He wasn’t quite fond of Aiden, just the distraction and the way the tension from almost failing European History for footy tryouts seeped from his bones anytime he bent Aiden over his and Louis’ shared desk in a dark room stained with their sweaty scents. And he might’ve liked the way Aiden always gagged on his cock or the way, those few times, Aiden always kissed the highest point of his spine with Liam’s face pressed into dirty sheets and his fingers curled around a cheap headboard.

“I never liked him, anyway,” Louis sighs, ruining his hair with careless fingers.

“So you’ve said,” Liam grins, lifting his eyebrows in the mirror. “A dozen times or so, mate.”

“Just making sure you never forget,” Louis says with a soft mouth and crinkled eyes.

“I won’t,” Liam grins and he soaks in the way it’s _always_ Louis – the calm in the tornado, the deep breath before a hurricane, the hand around his wrist while standing on the ledge.

“I hope Niall’s not too bothered that you’re sat in here, the _groom’s_ suite, instead of in the pews with him,” Liam notes, his soft palm an incredible contrast to his rough hair and he’s caught off guard when Radiohead fills the room rather than another track by Jay-Z.

Louis shrugs, tipping his head back and wrinkling up his suit with his careless positioning.

“He loves me too much – “

“He doesn’t,” Liam inserts with a half-cocked grin.

“ – to ever be upset with me. He’s probably trying to get all of Jade’s friends’ numbers anyway,” Louis finishes, sighing quietly.

The thunder echoes in the distance and Liam slides into his shoes, knocking his knee against Louis’.

“However did I get stuck with such arrogant mates,” Liam teases while shuffling away from Louis’ swatting hand. He takes up the length of the mirror again, the room darkening with the greying clouds outside and he thinks of his mum and her insistence that rain before a wedding is some age-old omen of good fortune.

“Just lucky, I s’ppose,” Louis replies carelessly, shoving off the couch and returning to his position behind Liam once more, dusting the lint from his shoulders. He presses a sloppy kiss to Liam’s cheek and grins. “It’s a shame we never shagged. We would’ve made a brilliant couple on a day like this.”

Liam admires them in the mirror, Louis’ arm strewn around his waist and Liam stretching awkwardly to pat Louis’ cheek with affection behind his fingers.

“We would not have,” Liam laughs but he refuses to shrug away from Louis’ careful pandering. “And you’d never be that lucky, arsehole.”

Louis rolls his eyes immediately and they trade grins in the reflection because they both know, since that first day, they would never work like that.

The parlor doors burst open and Ant spills in with a few of his university friends, laughing and throwing reckless punches and Liam’s chest expands with the swell of his heart because, despite circumstances, Ant fits into his bones like a brother now. An _almost_ equal. A small piece of sanity when it’s not needed but a little unexpected in its size.

All of that – the way Ant rubs at his head playfully, the way their fists bump like they don’t need words to say it, the crinkle around Liam’s eyes when Ant introduces a few of his friends to Liam with a _‘my brother Payner’_ attached – fades quickly when a halo of evaporated smoke follows and Zayn stumbles in with Harry, loud laughter echoing around them.

He thinks he likes Harry, with his wide green eyes and constantly pink cheeks and stretched out smile and pile of neat but sloppy curls. He’s only seen him a few times, off campus or at parties or behind a building huffing on a joint with Zayn joined at his side. They don’t exchange many greetings, not out loud, but Harry’s not rude like Zayn and smiles like he and Liam have been friends for years and always, always nods a _hello_ to Liam with a softness behind his smirk that Liam loves.

Zayn’s only in half his suit, hair nearly wrecked from the slow falling droplets of rain with chunky combat boots on rather than shiny shoes that swear to hurt your feet. He’s got a bottom lip caught between shiny teeth, five o’clock shadow already coming in, and his sleeves are shoved up to expose new ink around his forearm. His smile is neat and smug, like it’s always been, and there’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear, an undone bowtie hanging limply from his collar.

Liam scowls promptly at him, ignoring the way the lights play off the sweet hue of his skin – pale honey, an early amber – or the way he walks with that _‘I don’t give two shits’_ attitude Liam’s seen too many times before.

Louis’ fingers squeeze against his shoulders and he whispers a _‘who in the bloody_ fuck _is that’_ into the side of Liam’s neck.

Harry offers him a tiny wave, jerking his chin upward like _‘what’s up’_ and Liam returns the look before lowering his eyebrows at Zayn, the way he shrugs at Liam before moving to the other side of the room.

“You’ve never met Harry Styles?” Liam asks quietly, still glaring at Zayn in the mirror.

He hates the way Zayn fits in with everyone, laughing and offering up shots of whiskey from a scratched up flask. He’s a lot more comfortable in his skin now – the one marked with ink and last night’s lipstick on his neck and smooth muscles forming against a lithe frame – and his Yorkshire accent is a little thicker but fading.

“What the fuck is a _Harry Styles_?” Louis hisses, grinning into Liam’s shoulder.

“Foreign studies and Zayn’s new best mate,” Liam replies haphazardly, shrugging at the way Louis’ fingers dig furiously into the material of his jacket. “Nice lad, I assume.”

“ _Nice lips_ ,” Louis swoons, twitching behind Liam. “Looks like they could suck the life out of a cock and – “

“Tommo,” Liam groans, knocking Louis off but he doesn’t hesitate to let Louis cuddle closer, swinging an arm around Louis’ shoulders. “I don’t even know if he’s into, y’know, boys like that. He’s never given me that feeling that maybe – “

“And neither do you, mate, but I don’t think I was nearly as shocked to find out you fancy a dick in your jaw rather than walking in on Aiden plowing you that November morning when – “

Liam suffocates on an inhale and shivers at the memory. He knocks an elbow to Louis’ ribs and drowns out the sound of Louis’ laughter with the quiet strum of an acoustic guitar and old Eric Clapton in the distance.

“Whatever,” Liam sighs, leaning on Louis with an arm tucked around his back. “He hangs out with Malik and – “

“Zayn,” Louis corrects with a boastful smile that curves his mouth and Liam hates him.

He rolls his eyes and curls his fingers around the nape of Louis’ neck. “He’s got a shit best mate which means awful things for you.”

“But you like Ant,” Louis notes.

“There’s always an exception,” Liam smiles, pressing his temple to the crown of Louis’ head and he breathes in tangerine shampoo and acidic cologne. “But I don’t think Harry is one of them.”

“His lips should be,” Louis teases, wrapping his fingers around Liam’s hip and breathing out a rough breath.

Zayn grins at them from across the room with a cigarette tucked between his lips and fingers playing with the flame of his lighter.

“You shouldn’t smoke in your suit,” Liam scowls, lips puckered disapprovingly. “It’s _rented_ , remember?”

Zayn sighs and flips him off, curling around Harry with a laugh that echoes off the cheaply painted walls and the sound ignites a familiar feeling inside of Liam – complete _disdain_ , the perpetual meaning, maybe not the literal one.

He turns away immediately, grumbling and still fixing the edges of his suit in the mirror. He bites on a sigh, the one that’s been wadding in his throat for too many minutes now, and his palms are sweaty, his fingers jumpy every time someone barks out a laugh or hums _the Wedding March_ like _it’s coming, Liam, are you ready_ until Louis nudges his hips to Liam’s and smiles politely.

“You’ll be okay,” Louis whispers, stepping back to admire Liam even though he feels uncomfortable in his skin and he’s damp with sweat and his head is a little dizzy thinking about Jade in her white dress.

“But what about my speech? Do you think I’ll muck it up? Maybe I’ll forget half of it and the damn index cards are in _Niall’s_ suit jacket, for Christ’s sake,” Liam rushes out, deprived of proper oxygen and Louis’ easy smile just isn’t enough, not yet.

Not now.

“Now, Payno, babe,” Louis starts with a restless sigh and hands at his side. “We’ve been over this enough, okay?”

Liam nods even though he doesn’t mean it. He bites at his lip until it’s raw and his shirt feels tight around his chest, his weight distributed unevenly on his feet.

“You’ll do fine.”

“Brilliant words, bro,” Liam drags out, thumbing at his eyebrows and trying to reason the sound of his breathing.

Zayn sneaks into his vision and fills the space between him and Louis with a cocked up smile and careful hands. He reeks of nicotine and whiskey and stale deodorant but his jaw has a neat edge, unlike the one Liam remembers, his cheeks are sharp like they’ve always been but his face has lost most of the baby weight and his eyes are that raw, early-morning autumn color Liam associates with gold and scarlet leaves and the scent of pumpkins. He’s got unmistakable fingers against the collar of Liam’s shirt, fixing it, and Louis leaning up on the tips of his toes to watch with a curious hum behind his eyes.

There’s a puckered grin on Zayn’s lips – still pretty, still an edgy pink, still the ones Liam imagines around his dick when he’s desperate and horny and _tolerable_ of Zayn’s existence – and he’s cautious like a caged animal when he goes to flip his collar and add the bowtie. There’s an artful flow to his fingers, eyes downcast and the shadows his eyelashes provide streak Zayn’s cheeks a cool charcoal.

“You’re a wreck,” Zayn says, cocky but quiet as he loops the pieces together and refolds Liam’s stiff collar. His fingers linger, pressing out the material. “But you look sharp, babe.”

Liam swallows a choked noise, steadies Zayn’s swaying motions with shaky hands on his hips. It’s a nice fit, thumbs sinking into the hollows hipbones provide and fingers wrapping around the hard surface. He feels Zayn’s fingers beneath the collar, over his neck with a thumb pressed to Liam’s collarbone until the lump in his throat recedes on Zayn’s silent command. He breathes out something nervous and shaky and Zayn chuckles like he’s won the war.

It’s arrogant and uncalled for but Liam doesn’t respond. He merely tightens his hold and pretends not to imagine the way he could leave bruises on these hips with just his fingers, maybe the sheer velocity of his pelvis smacking against Zayn’s arse.

“Is this you being nice?” Liam wonders, tucking his eyes when Zayn lifts his and he watches the masterful twist of chapped lips, the shadowy etch of incoming stubble along the edge of a jaw.

Zayn snorts. “S’not my thing, bro,” he says lowly, leaning up until their height is leveled. “You still look like a complete _sport_ and y’know s’not my type.”

“Pretentious little shit,” Liam huffs under his breath and it’s meant to harm but Zayn grins instead.

He’s a little closer when he whispers _‘and you still look like a complete bore between the sheets but I’d fuck your mouth’_ and Liam considers, for the hundredth maybe millionth time, cracking a few of his knuckles against that neat jaw for the thrill of the blood on his skin and the split of Zayn’s lip. He hesitates when Zayn gently buttons Liam’s jacket and dusts off the wrinkles, backing away with a cheap smirk.

Louis slips in, just to the side of Liam, and Liam’s seething at the way Zayn nudges him out of the mirror to fix his quiff with hair wax and study his profile. He groans against Liam’s shoulder while Zayn buttons his cuffs, hiding the ink that Liam’s just started memorizing when –

Liam suffocates, simply cannot bear looking at the sparkle behind Zayn’s eyes and the relaxed state of his smile and he hates how they only run into each other between classes, at shared parties held by Ant and Jade, around the same bars on campus that they both pretend to hate but spend hours at. He hates that he can never really hold a conversation with Zayn because they don’t really have similar interests except they both love Marvel and Zayn draws wicked renditions of Superman and Liam’s a little curious about the way Zayn only wears glasses when he reads and he really wants to ask about Zayn’s favorite authors for some reason but it feels inappropriate when Zayn lights another fucking cigarette, flirts with every girl or boy that passes, and is a complete dick about _everything_.

He shoves all of that aside, for the sound of Louis’ soft humming and the buzz of Nirvana in the room and they recite _‘hey, wait, I’ve got a new complaint’_ together in soft tones but practiced harmonies.

“Still hate him?” Louis asks quietly because they’re far enough away and Zayn’s distracted by some slow, long story Harry’s telling.

“Absolutely,” Liam grumbles beneath his breath and, no, there’s not a hint of interest buried beneath all of his heavy breathing.

“ _Well_ ,” Louis says in that voice that Liam’s never enjoyed, “I still think you’d fuck him.”

Liam catches Zayn’s lips quirk up in the reflection and his cheeks burn an impossible shade of ruby, tucking his chin to hide it while his heart pulses like the thunder. His blood fuses with the uncomfortable heat under his skin and Louis is shameless about his giggle or the way he fixes Liam’s collar, again, before the white noise between his ears is overwhelming.

Ant sneaks into the small space separating them, throwing wild arms around both of their necks and dragging them in until Liam can’t look away from the fluorescent gold rimming Zayn’s pupils or the half-chewed bottom lip that’s flexing pliant flesh into a grin. Ant nudges his temples against their foreheads and his excitement is contagious, dripping from his enzymes and shoving dopamine into every last cell of Liam’s body.

“’s almost time lads and who better to celebrate this with than my two favorite boys,” Ant slurs like he’s drunk on his own reverie – or whatever Zayn’s passing around in that flask – and Liam grins when Ant winks at him.

“You mean me and this sport,” Zayn teases with narrowed eyes, the peak of his grin etched in sarcasm.

“Pretentious Lit prick,” Liam hisses with even smaller eyes.

Ant groans and tugs them in closer until most of their limbs are knocking together. He scoffs at Zayn and mocks Liam with his neck stretched out.

“No more fighting until after the _‘I do’s’_ , mates, please,” Ant begs but there’s an authority in his tone and a demand on his tongue. “We need to go find me blushing bride who’s waiting on me at the altar and you both know, despite being arse over tit about me, she’ll murder the three of us if we’re late.”

Liam snorts, nods an agreement that Zayn echoes with a small smile and their arms brush across the small of Ant’s back in comradely. He ignores the goosebumps that raise up his skin when their fingers brush and doesn’t say how he hates Zayn’s stupid rings or the way Zayn still stinks of nicotine, not when Zayn bites nervously at his lip like _he’s_ the one getting married or the flush of his cheeks when Liam’s thumb strokes the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger.

He focuses in on the way the variations of cheap glow from the overhead lights shines over Ant’s smile and he tugs away only when Zayn grins at him like he’s planning the war rather than laying down a peace treaty with waving white flags and a _surrender_ behind his teeth.

 

(*)

 

The reception is just west of that small church, in a tiny banquet hall with tea candles and fairy lights for glow to chase the shadows away. The sky is a thick, woven grey and its raindrops act as stars and the moon is an intermediate rhythm of lightning across coarse pewter clouds. It’s nothing like Jade imagined when growing up – with the old, wooden white chairs and cheap linen covering circular tables and reused silverware – but Liam thinks, belatedly, it’s everything she dreamed with a man she loves and a small gathering of friends that made her feel like a newly born supernova amongst a galaxy of muted dreamers.

There’s homemade finger foods on silver trays and Disney cupcakes that Jade _adores_ , lilacs woven into the hair spilling off her bare shoulder and a neatly fitted dress. He’s been watching – _admiring_ fits better over his tongue, right next to _appreciating_ – her from a corner of the room, pressed to a wall with a flute of trashy champagne that some hostess keeps refilling happily. His tongue is guarded between sharp, white teeth and he cocks his head to the side with his arms folded over his chest to eye the way Jade keeps giggling into strangers’ shoulders, tears on the corner of her lashes and cheeks a starry pink. The gloss on her lips has been smeared away from far too many cheek kisses and her smile is getting a little weaker from too many pictures but she’s still –

He imagines he’ll never forget that little girl who shared her first kiss with him, tangled her fingers in his under a poorly done treehouse with the grass a spring green and the sun an autumn orange and the air an early winter cold.

There’s a gentle selection of music that people sway to, kings and queens under a pollen yellow glow, and his eyes stray to an awkward glimpse of Zayn in another corner with some gorgeous, curly-haired girl pinned to the corner. She’s one of Jade’s classmates – _Danielle_ , maybe – but Zayn doesn’t seem to care, spilling drops of silvery tequila on her neck and using a lethal pink tongue to swipe them off. He’s got lips attached to her tendons, shaky hands on her waist like he’s more than a little uncertain on how to move to music like this and her glazed caramel skin tints a velvet gold under the lighting. Liam tries to settle that obstinate throb of his heart and he synchs his breathing with the chords of music as they snog uneasily like she’s too drunk and he’s too preoccupied. Long fingers sneak across the hem of her dress, peek underneath and Liam turns away immediately on the flush of her cheeks, the soft whine that curls her lips.

“ _So_ ,” Louis starts, flashes Liam an unforgettable smile that’s two-tenths affectionate and three-quarters mischief and one-eighth imposing, “whose dick would I have to suck to get Harry’s number? Well, besides his, of course.”

Liam snorts, willingly offers up his glass for Louis to refill with his stolen bottle of inexpensive chardonnay. They salute each other with tipped glasses and Liam cocks his head back to swallow it all in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Thankfully, not mine,” Liam replies with a loose grin.

Louis wrinkles his nose with a laugh, hauls an arm around Liam’s shoulders and presses next to him on the wall.

“Good,” he grins out, cheeks flushed from the alcohol but lips shiny from an errant tongue, “because I’ve seen your junk, man. Not impressed.”

“Have not,” Liam chokes out and the press of Louis grin to his birthmark is comforting in ways the music and the lights and the rapid flutter of his heart isn’t.

Louis scoffs, smothers another laugh into the collar of Liam’s shirt before taking liberal sips of wine from the bottle with a shiny neck and undone tie.

“You can’t hide much in the locker rooms, mate. Half the team chats up your dick, bro,” Louis teases, swallowing for air like the scent of the room is too pretty and the jasmine on the tables is too sweet. He cocks an eyebrow at Liam, an unrestrained glitter to those Pacific blues, “It’s quite pretty.”

Liam chuckles, thumps a fist to Louis’ absent shoulder and thuds his head on the wall when Louis coils back.

“M’prick isn’t _pretty_ , dude,” Liam argues with a rhythmic smirk but his cheeks give him away. “I’ve got a manly cock, you fuck.”

Louis shrugs carelessly, lips wrapped around the bottle again before he adds, “All of us uncircumcised lads do.”

Liam groans, traps clumsy fingers into Louis’ mussed hair, and sighs against his temple. They shift closer while everyone focuses on Ant leading a shy Jade toward the hardwood floors for another dance, passing the bottle back and forth for lazy sips and the kind of quiet they established a year ago –

The kind they always attach to studying under the library’s fluorescent lights and pizza in their room and Saturdays at a nearby bookstore for vintage copies of _the Amazing Spider-Man_ and Liam always, _always_ buys Louis a cardboard cup of tea for walks in Hyde Park when the rest of the world is afloat without them.

Louis makes a small noise of dissatisfaction with lazy fingers scrubbing over the hair on the nape of Liam’s neck and Liam’s sipping freely at the wine when Niall, ruddy cheeks and wide, bright blue eyes and clumsy steps, leads Eleanor toward the small mix of couples on the dance area.

Liam grins, shoving the bottle right back at Louis and he remembers Eleanor – docile eyes, gentle fingers, chunky brown hair fashion student who shagged Louis on and off during second term. She was sweet enough, a stray ripple in Louis’ _sexuality identity crisis_ – aptly titled by Louis himself, of course – and Liam remembers them exchanging goodbyes over biscuits and Starbucks coffee like two mates amicably disagreeing over Manchester and Chelsea.

Louis steals another a large gulp, quirking his lips into an uneven grin. He draws languid shapes over the center of Liam’s back and they watch the way Niall plays up the gentleman role with cautious hands on her hips until she giggles and curls arms around his neck to draw him closer, foreheads pressed together.

“We’re all stealing each other’s exes now,” Louis sputters, a pink tongue swiping the wine off his lips. “We’re a regular _Hollyoaks_ now.”

Liam grins and twists fingers into the fabric of Louis’ shirt before correcting, “More like _Skins_ , mate. Far more entertaining.”

He’s biting at his grin when Louis laughs, echoes a _‘cheers’_ with their bottle saluting Niall from halfway across the room. They drown their laughter in a few more swigs of fizzy white wine and Louis traps fingers around Liam’s wrist, pressing at the pulse and stopping him from drowning on the taste of unexplored freedom with a smirk.

“Sorry mate,” Zayn says, out of nowhere, before using gentle fingers to detangle Liam’s from around the neck of the bottle. He presses it to Louis’ chest, a half-grin on his lips and uses stealth as a weapon to twist his fingers around Liam’s and tug him off the wall.

The room is a soft gold from the lights and an exotic blue from the night’s sky and Zayn is decidedly brilliant when he leads Liam, stumbling, towards the herd of people on the hardwoods. His reflexes fail him on blind instinct and Zayn is a little quicker, a little firmer when he presses careful fingers to small of Liam’s back and keeps their fingers twined like _don’t let go just yet_. He’s startled and unprepared, not with Zayn grinning so intently and the out of place rhythm of his heart when Zayn presses to him.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice strained and caught between his chest.

Zayn shrugs, tries to lead them but he’s horribly uncoordinated and the Arctic Monkeys in the background keeps reminding him _‘your love is like a leather studded headlock.’_ There’s a twitch at Zayn’s lips, folding into a smile and Liam shakes his head with mild annoyance but his fingers sneak into the collar of Zayn’s shirt to press at the fantail ink on the crest of his spine just to calm him.

“I’m shit at this,” Zayn mumbles, still trying to sway them but they’re far from synchronized, falling a half-step behind the beat.

“Completely,” Liam laughs, cheeks tinting half a degree brighter when Zayn feigns a wounded expression at him.

Liam shrugs, tightens his fingers around Zayn’s and guides them in small circles with rocking hips and thighs brushing over the heavy percussion.

“They’re happy,” Zayn remarks, wriggling his eyebrows toward Ant and Jade, giggling into each other’s necks and sharing sugary kisses whenever someone clinks an empty champagne glass at them.

Liam grins, strokes absently at the tattoo until it wears his fingers numb. His teeth catch his bottom lip, gentle and comforting, and he can’t help the push at his heart when Jade’s cheeks flush and Ant’s fingers sneak across her delicate collarbone.

“D’ya ever want that?” Zayn wonders, his voice a little lower and Liam catches the way Zayn immediately looks away when their eyes meet.

He frowns, lips corkscrewing sideways before he sighs. “Maybe. Haven’t given it much thought, y’know?”

Zayn nods, still focused on anything rather than Liam. The glitter of the fairy lights spring off the bleached blonde strips of hair in the front and his sharp jaw shadows the scrawled out tattoos over his strong collarbone. They twist around a couple and Liam hums while Zayn mouths out _‘suck it and see, you never know sit down next to me before I go.’_ The echo of thunder, the pelting rain on the rooftop mixes effortlessly with the music and Zayn’s thumb strokes the edge of his hipbone in an uncoordinated rhythm that’s a little lazy and a lot cooling.

“How’s the, well,” Liam pauses, teeth wearing away the skin on a corner of his bottom lip until Zayn’s eyelashes flutter and he lifts his gaze, “the artwork coming along? Ant says you’ve taken on more courses in that field rather than Lit?”

Zayn grins, abashed and his fingers loosen around Liam’s for half of a beat. “I wish I could say I was an ace artist but ‘m really not.”

Liam nods, tucking his chin to distress the smile threatening to sear his lips –

Because there’s something endearing, something unfamiliar about Zayn being vulnerable. Something a little reminiscent of the first five minutes of their first meeting, when words were a little less threatening and looks were a little more dazed.

“I’ve been working a bit on the music thing,” Liam admits, knuckles unconsciously brushing back the collar to expose more of Zayn’s long neck, the pink bruises from unnecessary kisses and quiet embarrassment.

He jerks his head toward Louis in the corner with a fourth of a bottle of wine left and wide eyes watching Harry dance awkwardly with one of Jade’s mates.

“Tommo has been helping me out,” he adds, calming his grin but his fingers scratch at the nape of Zayn’s neck, the thick hair there. “My mummy is great at guitar, unlike me. But I think we’ve got some wicked lyrics.”

Zayn releases a breathy laugh and twirls them unsystematically until they’re almost crashing into another couple and sharing giggles at the aftermath. Liam steadies them again, two small ships in a tossing tide, and focuses his fingers down the loose stretch of Zayn’s spine. His cuffs are undone, sleeves shoved upward and he carelessly flicks open a few button on Liam’s shirt until it’ a complete distraction to the words in the distance, the _‘be cruel to me because I’m a fool for you’_ that sets something hot into Liam’s blood.

“Relax,” Zayn whispers with a tilted grin, shimmying his hips until they brush intentionally over Liam’s. There’s something cottony and thick settling into their cheeks, a fever from the alcohol and the rush of something else –

Liam feels it, unexpectedly, like your heart catching at the sight of the sun or your lungs expanding before an unconscious stream of tears wet your cheeks or the uncontrolled tingle between your fingers when someone says _‘I want you’_ for the first time.

Zayn smirks, nudges a few knuckles under Liam’s chin until he knocks it upward and Liam sighs restlessly at him.

“Loosen up a bit babe,” Zayn adds, his voice smoky and drenched with the alcohol, three-quarters into his high. He leans in a little and Liam freezes just before Zayn croons, “Or maybe you need something to stretch you out a little. Something to calm you down. S’that what it is? A good cock and a quick shag calms you down, Li?”

Liam scowls at him, ignores the way his cock thickens immediately at the syrupy sound of his voice or the edge of his tongue or the way fingers push deliberately at the dip in his spine until he’s almost pressed flushed against Zayn. He breathes out an unsteady breath and flits his eyes away, groans at the call of _‘you have got that face that just says baby I was made to break your heart’_ from Alex Turner.

“They look so sweet together,” an elderly woman, who’s pressed shamelessly to her husband and can’t take her eyes off of them, says with fake eyelashes and a crooked smile.

Zayn snorts, plays up to her by pressing a wet, messy kiss to Liam’s cheek and Liam nearly shoves him off except Zayn’s fingers tighten on his waist and Liam just can’t.

Fuck, he wants to but he just _can’t_.

“I’d never date you,” Zayn mumbles against his cheek, draws back when they’re on the edge of the hardwood floor with their bodies swaying out of rhythm again.

Liam’s barely noticed the way they’ve found their own melody, their own unintentional way of dancing with Liam leading them and Zayn following along like he wants Liam to take control.

Like he’s giving Liam permission to guide them, trust stitched into his fingertips.

Liam huffs out a breath, pulls away before Zayn can force him back this time.

“Good,” he hisses, eyebrows wrinkled and lips pushed out. “I don’t date arseholes.”

 _Space_ , he thinks with his breathing a little labored and his heart rattling harder than it was before. He shuffles away, even though their fingertips catch and twist around for a few seconds too long, and he fixes his coat while Zayn pushes his fingers through his hair to distract Liam from the color of his cheeks. He swallows – tries to, really, but he chokes – and drags his feet over the hardwoods while the music fades out.

Zayn’s lips quirk up and his smile turns cocky before he says, “But you’d shag me, right? Least that’s what your mate said.”

Liam flushes, strains an uncomfortable noise that’s both embarrassing and shamefully honest before he tightens his jaw.

“No.”

Zayn snorts, arches a single eyebrow like a dare, like a challenge, like he’d be willing if Liam just –

No. He _won’t_ and they _can’t_ and _he hates Zayn Malik._

“S’fine,” Zayn laughs, dragging the hem of his white shirt from his trousers and he pats a cigarette out of a worn pack of Marlboro’s with a lighter to match. He shrugs carelessly before blinking at him. “Maybe one day we’ll discuss properly the various equations involving me riding you or whether you like to be on your knees while being fucked or on your back so you can look up into your lover’s eyes.”

Something awful, tight and restraining captures Liam’s spine and Zayn giggles, rubbing at his nose to hide his smile. An indecent tongue flicks over Zayn’s pretty lips and fingers curl around Liam’s wrist, tug roughly until he notices Jade and catches the _‘stop teasing him Malik, he’s not ready for you’_ that spills across her lips. Zayn nods at her with a muted laugh and she smiles back before she drags Liam away, all of his nerves ignited and limbs shaking.

 

(*)

 

They’re pushed into a corner, Zayn’s words still burning through his nervous system, orbiting the gravity of his mind while Jade’s fingers fidget around his wrist and her teeth wear away the gloss on her lips. There’s an acoustic-driven Taylor Swift song in the background and the celebration is far from mild but it all quiets when Jade looks up at him with large eyes and pale cheeks.

His hand, instinctively, cups her neck and she breathes out something shaky, something nervous before smiling.

“Are you okay?” he asks automatically and her nod is confident, her lips quirking.

“I’m _married_. I’m Mrs. Riach, which is quite an awful last name mind you, and, fuck babe, you’re gonna kill me,” Jade gushes, tugging him closer, burying her nose into the hollows of his collarbone – the one that’s exposed because of Zayn’s stealthy fingers and he’s ashamed of the way his cock still aches for loose lips, confident fingers, that crude tongue – before adding, “And I’m two months pregnant, babe. I’m gonna be a mum.”

It’s quiet – in his mind, in his chest, down in the depths of his stomach – for a second, maybe ten before he drags slow fingers down her spine and exhales out the fear. He rubs his stubble over her temple until she giggles and everything that tenses inside of him relaxes on the pink of her cheeks and the teardrops stuck to her eyelashes like soaked leaves after a rainstorm. He thumbs them away, takes a few clumsy steps backwards to admire her.

“You’re – “

“Oh God,” she groans with a tinny laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t you _dare_ , Liam Payne. You will not act like my father right now.”

There’s a plea in her voice, even if she tries to disguise it with a smirk and lidded eyes. There’s something scared under the layers of happy, buried between the folds of excitement. He’s cautious when he strokes the back of his hand over her cheek and he absently uses his spare hand to rub at her stomach, for the touch, for the way she lights up at the idea.

“You’re gonna be a mum,” he beams, his voice quiet but the words bone-strong.

She tips her head back with a laugh, with teeth gnawing at her lip before nodding. Her hand covers his, pushing down a little more until they can both pretend to feel the heartbeat, the shift of something inside of her.

They press their foreheads together, grinning at each other, whispering little words of affection that he’ll never forget and his hand stays against her stomach until all of the muscles relax. From a corner of his eye, he can see Ant halfway across the room with nervous fingers squeezing the tendons in Zayn’s shoulders and the smile on his face is irremovable. Its thick like Sunday sunrises and Zayn’s smirking back, nodding, punching playfully at Ant’s shoulder. They’re trading glances over tea candles and fairy lights and, fuck, it’s the scariest thing he can remember.

It’s the slight blurred edge of reality and distance and _there’s no place like home_ , he knows, but right here with these three has become just that.

And it terrifies him, all the same.

 

(*)

 

“Her name is Lily.”

It’s a cool Sunday evening, in the heart of November, with the sun faded and the sky that neat in-between of pinks and purples when Liam stumbles into a hospital room that’s stained white and feels cold and sterile except for a curled up, sleeping Jade on the bed and Ant rocking in a chair with an infant nestled between his arms. His forehead is still damp with sweat, his cleats clattering off the tiles of the room and his practice jersey sits loose on his shoulders.

From the doorway, he can pick out the bright pink of her cheeks, the long eyelashes fanned across her skin, the brilliant red of her lips. There’s a warming cap half-cocked on her head, thick dark hair sprouting out of it and her skin is still pale but he can tell it’ll shine that thin line between honey and gold when it finally colors. She’s tucked into a blanket decorated in stars and moons and Ant’s humming something deliberately sweet and somehow unintentional every time she sighs. Tiny fingers are curled around his forefinger, her breathing even and still so new to her. There’s a matched tempo between her lulled breaths and Ant’s and the smile spread across his lips aches against his cheeks but he doesn’t mind when he gets close enough.

“We can’t decide between a middle name,” Ant sighs, lifting his head a little to grin up at Liam. “Your best mate wants something typical – “

“She’s not typical,” Liam whispers but it comes out affectionate, incredibly pliant.

Ant nods back, snorting. “Something like Rose,” he finishes, his thumb outlining her cheek. “I wanted something a little closer to home. Maybe something Arabic or a little less western?”

“You just want to be as gangsta as me.”

Ant beams and Liam cocks his head around to watch Zayn stride into the room. His clunky boots thump against the floor and his hair is messy, eyes that shade of autumn leaves in October. He’s minus the leather jacket in favor of an oversized Henley that stretches the sleeves over his knuckles and exposes all the new pieces across his collarbones and chest with a rough stubble and Liam narrows his eyes at him immediately.

Zayn smirks at him, nudges their shoulders like a _hello_ before fitting into that space between Liam and Jade’s bed to get a better look at Lily. His fingers tuck themselves around Liam’s waist, a strong forearm pressed to the small of his back and Liam ignores the acidic words on his tongue and the disdain beneath his skin to share the view of the infant stirring in Ant’s arms.

“You’re a bad influence, bro,” Ant teases, rocking Lily quiet again. “But, yeah, I want that and Jade’s undecided.”

Zayn nods, his smile crinkling up his eyes and he steals a few fingers into the back of Liam’s hair, up the crown to tangle around the longer pieces.

“This is new,” Zayn whispers, nudging his chin to Liam’s shoulder and it almost sounds like an _‘I like the way it looks on you’_ but Liam knows Zayn’s always been good at cheap flirting and nothing else.

Liam shivers, mild but still obvious, before elbowing at Zayn’s ribs. “Growing it a bit.”

Zayn smirks, wrinkling his nose and he twists his fingers into the half-quiff, the deliberate faux Mohawk on Liam’s head. His stubble works against the fabric of Liam’s jersey, wears his skin a little raw and he doesn’t miss the _‘looks like I’ve influenced you too’_ that slides across Zayn’s lips, lifted by the slick slide of his tongue.

He turns away, scrunching his nose while staring at Lily instead.

“You smell like cigarettes,” he groans, trying not to press back into Zayn even though their hips are brushing and Zayn’s fingers are still in his hair, playfully pulling apart what’s left of the product there. “S’not good for Lily.”

Zayn huffs and scratches at his scalp with a dull thumbnail. “And you reek too, _sport_. You stink of locker rooms and soiled jock straps.”

The words are meant to be mean, cruel even but Zayn uses his tongue to round out the vowels until it sounds almost endearing and Liam hates the way his body reacts – the way he does shove up against Zayn like, in this moment with their friends and this newborn who’s already captivating his heart with the flutter of her eyelashes and the unconscious quirk of her lips, they’re okay with each other.

It’s his body saying _‘no,_ hate _is such a strong word and when you were nervous about the birth and you needed comfort, he was the first person you thought to call’_ but he distracts himself with the quiet yawn from Lily’s mouth and the way Ant, immediately, diverts his attention to his daughter as if he was meant to play this role.

The tip of Zayn’s nose brushes up against his cheek and Liam can feel Zayn’s smile when he whispers, “I bet you look rather ace in your skivvies or a thong, yeah? Just you and the boys – sweaty, so much fucking skin."

Liam blushes automatically while Zayn crows out a laugh that startles Lily and Liam’s skin turns cold under Zayn’s unguided ministrations.

“How was class?” Ant asks before Liam can hiss out the _‘fuck off Malik it’ll never ever happen’_ that’s become more like a greeting rather than an intentional dismissal.

Zayn smirks at him with his tongue pressed to his teeth before turning a little toward Ant, wrinkling his expression and pushing back the soft fringe of his hair. He shrugs before replying, “It’s film studies. Just another course on the way to – “

“On the way to what?” Liam interrupts, creasing his eyes and the buzz of Zayn’s fingertips tickling and pinching up the coil of his spine is completely disturbing and unnecessary.

Zayn sighs, hip checking Liam away. He reaches forward to gently knock the cap off of Lily’s head and his fingers swirl through the soft tuft of hair. Her eyes blink open, momentarily, and Liam swears his breathing hitches – Zayn’s too – on the amber color like honey-drenched tea after midnight and the way she’s so _beautiful_ and fresh and nothing like this stale room they’re huddled in.

“I’m still studying modern lit you twat,” Zayn hisses but his lips curl into a grin, something amusing if Liam could be bothered with the way Zayn looks.

“I thought you were leaning toward art studies?” Liam wonders with his head cocked to the side.

“Graphic design,” Ant corrects, cooing at Lily’s whimpered breathing.

Jade yawns and adds, “Last term, when he was kind of dating that one girl getting her degree in economics, he was focused on Shakespearian studies and the classics.”

Zayn whines and flips them each the same finger. He thumps Liam’s shoulder for good measure and Liam’s certain he flashes the kind of shy smile he did that first night, before the tension and the start of the war, but it disappears quicker than it appeared and Zayn’s staring at Lily rather than Liam.

“How are you?” Liam asks over his shoulder, smirking at Jade, admiring the afterglow and the way she simply radiates affection when her eyes fall slowly on Lily.

He thinks about crawling into bed with her, sliding an arm around her tense shoulders and pressing a smooth kiss to her temple until her bones relax and her muscles return to form. His hesitation wins the battle and he sneaks a few fingers under her scratchy blanket to press against her bare ankle and his chest expands on the smile she offers back. It tastes like a _thank you_ and _I’m so glad you’re here_ but he refuses to define it when she tilts her head and beams at him with sleepy eyes and dry lips.

“I’m alive,” she croaks, slouching further down the bed, “and I’m so glad she’s here. She’s so – Li, she’s so beautiful and wonderful.”

Liam nods, tries to push down the size of his smile but he just can’t. No, not with Jade looking so fondly and with Zayn harmonizing lowly to match Ant’s tone and not with Lily shivering in that thick blanket for half a second before dozing off again. He merely thumbs at the tattoo he finds blindly on her skin, teeth catching on his bottom lip with everything finally slowing down.

He leans away from Zayn and closer to Lily to map out the soft feel of her cheeks and the delicate curls at the ends of her hair. He’s speechless, as much as he hates the cliché, with his tongue caught behind his teeth and his chest the size of the ocean when those eyes like unshaven cinnamon flutter open again and they’re huge and wondering and Liam loses focus on the way Lily looks under the unfair glare of fluorescent lights.

“D’ya wanna hold her?” Ant asks when Liam’s lulling into recovery from the twitch of her lips, the way her eyes slide shut again.

Liam startles, his skin lit and his jaw slack but Zayn’s quicker with his reflexes, shoving in and carefully reaching for Lily.

“Be careful, you donut,” Liam scolds because he’s certain Zayn hasn’t read up on proper techniques and he’s a little thoughtless with his hands.

Zayn pouts and elbows him before gentling Lily into the crook of one arm, thumbing back her tiny fringe and knocking his shoulder against Liam’s. There’s a crooked smile stitched over his lips and his palm cups the back of her head and Liam thinks –

It’s a complete travesty how _beautiful_ Zayn looks with her in his arms, slowly rocking her into comfort and her eyelashes beat a hundred different beats to the sound of his soft voice and Liam _can’t_ stop watching.

He tries, honestly, but he can’t.

He’s not sure if it’s like a massive car wreck splintered across a highway or that first ivory flake of snow that pinwheels from the clouds mid-November. But he watches, absently, until Zayn cranes the length of his neck and tucks his chin to brush the edge of his stubble over her forehead.

Liam’s careful when he rotates muscles and stretches into the small gap between the crook of an elbow and the taut tendons of a forearm to brush a few fingers over Lily’s ear, across the lowest extremity of her cheek. He slides in, skims his grin over the round of Zayn’s shoulder when she coos and yawns. It’s a soft sound, dusting itself into Liam’s lungs and Zayn’s cheek brushes the sheen on his forehead from the sweat and the edge of chapped lips laugh into his hair.

Ant grins up at them, leaning back in the rocking chair. “You two look good with her.”

“Shut it,” Zayn hisses but there’s a thick, cottony fondness in his tone.

Liam presses his fingers against still ruddy lips and his thumb strokes over her nose until it twitches and his nerves are lit up with tiny bursts of something sweet when she reacts so beautifully to the sound of his voice when he says, “She really is gorgeous, mate.”

“Cheers,” Ant smirks and Jade sighs happily, curling around a pillow with heavy eyes, pale skin. “Enjoy her. I decided – “

“ _We_ ,” Jade corrects him with a pliant smile, squeezing her fingers into the pillow when she shifts uncomfortably.

“Yes, love, we decided that you two,” Ant starts and Zayn frowns immediately.

“Nothing ever starts good when it’s _‘you two’_ and y’know it,” Zayn huffs, knocking an elbow against Liam’s ribs and it rattles him enough that his fingers slide away.

“You two,” Ant interjects and the spiteful words in Liam’s mouth rest unused on his tongue, “will be the godfathers. So get used to it, both of you.”

Liam wrinkles his nose when Zayn lifts his head, blinking at him with a blank expression that turns percussion-heavy with his grin and those eyes are the ripest of gold like the skin of an apple.

“That’s sick,” Zayn hums, looking away and gently adjusting Lily in his arms. He puts on a cheap Marlon Brando voice and sways into Liam before adding, “ _The Godfather_. ‘s kind of gangsta, yeah?”

Liam sighs, pretends not to feel the itch of a smile on his lips when Zayn’s eyes crinkle up with laughter.

“Not quite sure they’ve sorted through the idea of you being a – “

“Oh sod off, _sport_ ,” Zayn groans.

“One day,” Ant smiles, leaning over to tickle fingers up Jade’s bare foot, across the arch until she’s tilting her head to beam at him, “when we’re dead and gone, you two will fall arse over tit with each other and realize you were shit at hating each other and spent too much time apart.”

Liam winces and Zayn laughs, shaking his head. “You’re daft, man.”

Ant shrugs and strokes the heart of Jade’s calf until she nudges back.

There’s a long breath slipping past her lips, hair spilling over her shoulders and cheeks turning a quiet pink before she says, “Remember what we said when we were kids?”

Liam smiles, floats a few fingers over Lily’s wrapped shoulders, across her small chest until he can find the throbbing rhythm of her heart.

“We were going to move to LA and live on the beach?”

Jade grins, biting at her lip until it swells slightly. “Right by the sand – “

“And I’d surf every morning while you – “

“I’d get a tan and wear my lucky Aviators with a big sun hat,” Jade finishes, exhaustion soaking her voice and muscles tensing again but her lips crease into a smile he’s certain he’ll never forget.

“Rest babe,” Ant whispers and she grins sleepily before her eyes flutter shut, her body absorbed by the thick blanket but nothing can hide the glow across her docile face.

“I still hate you,” Zayn whispers, casually, when Liam is too distracted by the beat of Jade’s eyelashes against her cheek and the squirming infant in Zayn’s arms and he knocks his nose against Zayn’s shoulder when he presses in to stroke the back of Lily’s head.

“Same, dude,” Liam says mockingly. Their fingers meet, accidentally, at the top of her skull and he bites at the tendons in Zayn’s neck until he yelps softly and gives in.

“You’re a complete arse – “

“Not in front of the babe, Malik,” he growls lowly and he fits around Zayn carefully to brush the pink from her cheeks.

“Fuck off,” Zayn hisses back but he’s smirking defiantly before leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead, lips dragging on the laugh vibrating over his tongue.

Liam ignores him, closes his eyes to breathe in the sweet scent of her skin while his fingers, absently, rub idle circles over the small of Zayn’s back.

 

(*)

 

He _hates_ blind dates.

Truthfully, he thinks they’re unnecessary and always end in meaningless shags or complete regret but he’s not really looking for either. He’s _content_ – at least, it’s the easiest word for him to tell everyone, including himself, even though it’s been years since his last honest relationship and the times he’s gotten off in anything other than his palm is more than a handful now. But Jade has been insistent lately, using Lily as a decoy to offer up classmates and single moms and potential lads who disguise jobs as baristas as a transition to some career in acting or as an in-between before law school –

He gets it, he does. It’s the first term of his last year and he’s more into footy than studies and he’d rather sit around her flat with Lily on the floor, making sputtering noises until she giggles manically than sit around and pretend to have interest in anyone.

And he’s certain he’s going to murder Jade when he sees her because his date – some inked up girl, Cher, with her thick accent, loud cackle, chunky earrings, and lips a sharp shade of red – just isn’t his type. Yet, he _tries_ with some posh restaurant at the center of the city with casual conversation and soft music in the background.

Niall texts him about being polite and holding the door for her while Louis leaves him utterly filthy messages on his voicemail about using protection and _use loads of tongue when you go down on her, mate, the girls love that_ and his phone has been buzzing for the past hour in his pocket but he refuses to look at it. He tries to hold her hand under the table, fumbling fingers and sweaty palms until she cocks an eyebrow at him and shrugs away. He’s not nervous but his shirt is buttoned up to the collar and Louis misted him with some cologne that smells like sea salt and white sands and his shirt looks _horrible_ against the sharp darkness of the ink stained across his forearms – the thick chevrons and the script opposite of them.

He forgot to shave and he’s certain the mint gum between his teeth went flavorless thirty minutes ago but he feigns interest in her dreams of a hip hop career while trying to discuss his music theory classes between glasses of shabby champagne and plates of steamed vegetables.

Something sweet stripes up his spine when she excuses herself for _‘girl things’_ and he grins up at her hopeful with shaky fingers. He tugs disruptive fingers through his hair, fucking it unconsciously, and he’s impatient when he jerks his phone out of his pocket and prays for something helpful from Louis rather than tips on how to get a girl pissed and back to his off-campus flat.

There’s a foreign voice on the other side of the phone and he takes a long sip of champagne – an ill-advised way of tricking his brain from the thoughts of how horrible this is going – before he hears it:

_‘… we’ve been trying to get a hold of you, Mr. Payne, for an hour now to let you know. The investigation is still on-going but there looks to be no foul play involved. We do know that the vehicle spun out and the car flipped twice before it slammed into the tree. There were no survivors. We were notified by authorities that you were the next in line for their daughter, Lily, and she is safe at a foster center for now. We’re sorry for your loss, sir.’_

He thinks his heart stops. Even the static in his ear, the traffic in the background, can’t drown out the silence in his chest. He’s positive his blood turns cold and his mouth goes dry and it takes him two minutes and his phone tight between his fingers before he breathes again.

And then the silence gets louder.

 

(*)

 

_‘We’re sorry for your loss, sir.’_

 

(*)

 

 _There were no survivors_.

It sits on repeat in his mind, with fingers numb and muscles refusing to relax and his skin a dense cold and his cheeks soaked. The hallway of a hospital he’s never been to with white tiling freezing beneath him and knees drawn to his chest feels like an echo of ghosts. The stark fluorescent above flickers haphazardly and everything spins like those dizzying kind of rollercoasters you love to hate. And his teeth wear away the skin on his bottom lip until he tastes copper while his trainers squeak over the floor until the nurses tire of checking on him and leave him to those four words, to his slick tears.

Chunky boots fall into his vision and a wiry frame slides down the wall next to him, shoulders nudging unconsciously until long fingers grip his knee and everything tense inside of him floods his chest with metallic ache. He bites into a few knuckles instead of his tongue and his bones shiver until Zayn presses a forehead to his temple so he can _breathe, fuck just breathe_.

“I don’t know what – “

“Is Lily okay?” Zayn asks quickly, his own voice tight and he stinks of a dozen cigarettes, cheap beer. His fingers are splattered in paint and his knuckles are bruised – probably from slamming into a brick wall, maybe glass.

Liam swallows, tries so hard to but that lump in his throat keeps expanding, choking off oxygen. He drags the heel of a trainer across the tiles until it leaves a scuff mark. “They say she’s safe and sleep,” he trembles out, looking away to hide the tears. “But I haven’t seen her.”

Zayn knocks a few fingers over the ink across Liam’s wrist, slots his hips against Liam’s.

“Have you – “

“They made me identify her,” Liam sobs, his throat constricted and _be brave_ floods his system but he can’t. He can’t stop the chill beneath his skin or the way his heart hasn’t stopped racing. “They made me view both of them and Jade’s not even close to her adopted family, man. She hasn’t been since she left home, mate, and technically they’re not considered next of kin or summat.”

Zayn sighs and Liam’s never wanted the lean muscle of Zayn’s arm, the curl of his fingers around his bicep until it’s there – circling his tense shoulders and hauling him in without hesitation.

“Ever since Danny died and Ant’s parents left for America, they haven’t talked,” Zayn admits, dragging the errant stubble of his chin over the exposed line of Liam’s neck. His chapped lips skim the tendons before he adds, “They don’t even know about Lily. They sort of took a piss out of the idea of him getting married so young.”

Liam nods, scrubs his cheeks along the ruffled sleeve of his pressed Oxford. He drags his wet nose up his forearm and blinks back fat teardrops when he catches the red lines scattered across Zayn’s eyes.

“She’s gonna be an orphan,” Liam sighs, choking on the ache, “just like her mum.”

Zayn bites roughly at his lip and sneaks fingers under Liam’s chin to thumb his collarbone.

“She’ll still have us, right?” Zayn wonders, something dazed crossing his face when Liam wrinkles his brow. “Isn’t that what godfathers do?”

Liam spares a few fingers to scrape away the impatient tears that wet Zayn’s cheekbones and looks away when a frown creases his lips. He hums under his breath, some tune his mum always sings and the _‘hold me, hold me, hold me’_ waits unforgiving on his tongue until he can find some rhythm of clarity. He feels Zayn’s fingers tighten over his skin and they’re lopsided in this position but Liam doesn’t care because he just wants –

 _Wants_ feels like such a small word. He _craves_ , he _fancies_ , he _desires_ Jade next to him on this floor. Just her voice, her small waist, her streaked hair and quiet perfume and wild addiction for Alex Turner in her weakest moments but all of that wails infuriatingly in the back of his mind until Zayn scratches at his skin.

“She’s got nothing but us, dude,” Zayn adds, a little choked, a lot broken. “But we’re not really – “

“There was a lawyer. Some guy in a cheap suit with slick hair and a shit tie and he tried to explain to me that,” Liam pauses, feels the icy pull of the hospital and the collision of his heart with the uneven breathing before he finishes, “He says that we’re her guardians. Fucking Ant and Jade left her in our care, man. Signed some legal papers when she was six months and didn’t even bother to tell us but it was some kind of pre-summat.”

“ _Precaution_ ,” Zayn corrects, ducking his head and nuzzling his nose into the stiff cotton of Liam’s shirt. His eyes are wide, still glassy with unshed tears and his lip is swollen.

“Yeah, whatever,” Liam sighs, tilting his head back until it thuds against the wall. “We’re all she – Malik, we’re all that little girl has.”

Zayn blinks at him, brow raised and his fingers ink little red marks over Liam’s wrist. “They just,” he swallows, thumps a heel on the floor, “they left her with _us_? Not, like, I dunno Ant’s parents? Maybe Jade’s family? A distant cousin or summat?”

Liam closes his eyes to slow his shattered breathing, feels the wiry coil around his heart and it’s too tight. It’s suffocating and unfair.

And all he can think of, for too many seconds and too many harsh breaths, is eyes like fresh cinnamon and cherry lips and skin like glittered gold.

“No, just us,” Liam says a little roughly, catching the skin of his lip with his teeth. “And if you can’t handle it, ace. Cheers, dude. But I can’t just let my best mate lie in a morgue five floors down in this damn hospital and forget that little girl that reminds me so much of – “

Zayn’s fingers squeeze around his wrist and his thumb maps out _‘time will tell’_ and Liam tries to center his breathing on the soft, unspoken expression coating Zayn’s face.

“I lost my best mate, too, sport,” Zayn spits but it’s too soaked in loss to sound harsh. His tongue catches behind his teeth and his lips tremble before he adds, “but we both know Lil’ means the world to you and me. So fuck off if you think I’m gonna just abandon her.”

Liam nods, refuses to argue. He licks at the salt on his upper lip and holds tight to an inhale until his blood burns warm. He nudges into Zayn, knocks away his chin until they smile at each other through bleary eyes and figuring everything out isn’t as important as their loose fingers and unguided breaths as they cling a little tighter to each other.

A little closer, a little more terrified in the middle of the storm.

 

(*)

 

It takes them a whole week and two funerals and a string of sympathetic words – _‘I’m sorry for your loss’_ becomes duller and duller each time, not like the first time but his heart still aches when he hears the words, alone, in his flat – before the lawyers piece together all of the paperwork and child protective services calls them and the world gets a little less dim when Lily is gentled into his arms, with Zayn just behind him and reaching over his shoulder to brush away her confused tears.

It takes them two hours and too much shouting to decide Zayn’s university room is not an ideal place for Lily to stay and Liam’s flat is a bit cramped but it’s enough. He’s got a spare room and enough space for a playpen and her toys and Zayn, begrudgingly agrees its safe enough for her. There’s a pause between their sips of coffee and her quiet whimpers – _‘and what about you?’_ he remembers asking with Zayn chewing at his lip and their eyes on London traffic rather than each other – before they sit in their silence, avoiding what they know they have to consider.

“I can’t,” Zayn grumbles but it’s followed by a surrendering sigh and his chin dropping. “I mean, I know it’d be best for her but – “

“I’ve got a couch,” Liam confesses, slumping over their table at an imitation Starbucks with shit coffee, cold biscuits, poor views of the skyline. “And I s’ppose I could use the help if she’s there. Plus you’d pay half the rent – “

“A fourth,” Zayn demands, wrinkling his face when Liam snaps his head in his direction. “I’m a struggling uni student with – “

“With no direction,” Liam counters and he refuses to disguise his smile when Zayn kicks him under the table. “A third of the rent, then?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and rests his chin on his knuckles, agreeing silently with a nod and a foot brushing Liam’s ankle under the table. “Reckon I could do that.”

“For Lily,” Liam adds, stealing his eyes away again even though the late sun is peeling across Zayn’s face and highlighting his profile like some sculpture of Greek gods in a few of those dense history books he shouldered around last term.

“For Lily,” Zayn repeats, quietly, teeth still gnawing unnervingly at his lip. He knocks Liam’s knee with his own and smirks smugly. “Y’know this isn’t going to work, right?”

Liam chuckles, nodding. “Like that first night at the bar.”

“You would’ve been a boring fuck,” Zayn offers, reaching out to brush back the fringe of Lily’s hair, thumb away the tears from exhaustion streaking her cheeks.

“And you would’ve been a lazy one,” Liam argues, smacking Zayn’s hand away and feeding Lily a few half-munched animal crackers. His heart swells at her haphazard smile, lips shiny with saliva and eyes large like he remembers Jade’s being –

And he stays awake too many nights thinking of her and first kisses and holding hands and cuddling her through nerves about marrying Ant.

“You’ll never know, I guess,” Zayn teases, sipping at his steaming coffee and brushing the back of his hand over pink lips.

“How tragic,” Liam says dryly, sketching his eyes over Lily and the dip of the sun in the background and the cool shift of September air in London brushes away the uncertainty under his flesh for just a few seconds.

Just long enough that he forgets how scared and apprehensive about all of this he really is.

 

(*)

 

He keeps hearing _‘there were no survivors’_ in his head until he can focus on Lily long enough with his eyes lining with tears and she’s worth every stretch of fear between his bones.

He swears she is.

 

(*)

 

The sun is heavy and high on a Saturday afternoon and he’s thumbing idly at four thickly inked chevrons on the underside of his forearm while trying to read instructions that he swears, swears would probably be easier to understand in Japanese because putting together a child’s crib should not be this complicated. There’s a scattering of tools and unfinished pieces by his bare feet, the cuff of his jeans hanging over the tendons and bones. There’s a shiny coat of sweat across his forehead with his plaid shirt halfway undone and Louis’ humming playfully in the background with four-day old stubble and a cheap glass filled with expensive wine between his fingers. His grin is too large and his eyes are too blue in this light and Liam hates him for inviting himself over to help put together Lily’s brand new Ikea crib – because he can’t look at or touch any of the things Jade and Ant bought her, not in that now empty flat they shared with all of their belongings in storage – but acting more like a dictator rather than an assistant.

“Wrong piece, bro,” Louis sighs with rolled up, skintight and dyed jeans, swirling the scarlet wine around in his glass. He takes a liberal sip and pushes the fringe out of his eyes before adding, “And I think you put those last two parts together upside down.”

“Fuck off,” Liam spits but it’s only partially tinted with spite, mostly just frustration.

He uses the back of his wrist to swipe away the sweat and there’s unfamiliar music somewhere in the background that Louis sings along to. Lily crawls around the madness with a pacifier between her lips and a giggle muffled by the soft rubber. Louis sings _‘you say we burn and we burn without a fire, you say we’ll hold on, hold on until we expire’_ while Liam scrapes his flesh raw with useless screws.

“You’re not very likeable when you’re angry,” Louis teases, hiccupping out a giggle that’s wet with a haze of alcohol. He smirks into his shoulder, wiggles his toes at a passing Lily before adding, “Sort of like that one bloke from Marvel comics. S’name is Bart? Or Bryan?”

“ _Bruce_ ,” Liam hisses, shoving the railing into a post. “Bruce Banner, you idiot.”

“The Hulk,” Louis slurs with an echoing laugh that rattles off the walls of the small spare bedroom.

Liam groans, his knees raw from the hardwood floors beneath him and Lily stumbles onto her bum, blinking up at him with wide, wide eyes. He smiles distractedly at her, threading his fingers through her dark hair and waiting until she sighs pleasantly under his touch.

“You sure you can do this?” Louis asks between the change of songs and the roar of London traffic outside the open window.

Liam bites at his lip and looks away from Lily, still rubbing soothing strokes across her head.

“Shouldn’t be that hard? They even offer Swedish instructions,” Liam shrugs, refolding the paper until he’s on the right page. He taps his foot along to the _‘this house is falling apart’_ before whispering, “Especially if you _helped out_ , you bastard.”

Louis smirks for a long second before his face goes incredibly serious, a little trick Liam’s certain he learned during theatre class.

“Not that,” Louis mentions, waving a casual hand at the mess surrounding Liam before narrowing his eyes. “I mean _this_. Raising her. With him. Doing all of these, I don’t know, _adult_ -like things. Like, I mean, I get it honestly but are you quite sure you’re ready for this level of maturity? Christ, even I couldn’t imagine doing it.”

“You can’t imagine waking up to the same person every morning, Tommo, c’mon,” Liam teases and it’s meant to sound fond, uncaring but it’s really just a disguise.

It hides the tension in his throat and the worry beneath the surface and the way he’s been slowly trying to reconfigure every little piece of himself ever since Lily was placed back into his arms by some stranger in a world that was too, too big now.

“Liam,” Louis warns and he freezes. His fingers lose themselves in Lily’s hair until she crawls away and, suddenly, with the sun stroking massive waves over his back, he feels cold and broken again.

“It’s quite weird, you know,” he replies, his tongue thick and his words tangled. He tugs nervous fingers through his thick hair, scooping it up into a lazy quiff before settling on the floor with his legs kicked out and his hands propped behind his back, steadying him.

He looks up at a nodding Louis. His throat goes dry and even the soft echo of Lily’s unintelligible mumbling can’t soothe his rattling heart.

“I mean, I think I can do it,” Liam adds, tipping his head back. The sun blinds him and Louis rocks back and forth from his stool in the corner. “I’ve changed up my course studies and I’ve rung up my mummy – “

“I thought you say she was a stoner-hipster?” Louis asks with a sharply arched eyebrow, glass to his lips.

Liam rolls his eyes and his smile turns affectionate at the giggle that passes Louis’ lips. “And a complete Fleetwood Mac addict but she still raised me quite proper,” he explains, brushing his toes over the soft skin of Lily’s cubby calves. “She’s giving me advice and stuff. Me sisters too. Plus I spent so much time with Jade when Lily was first born, it can’t be that hard, right?”

Louis snorts, tips more wine into his glass. “’s what they all say, mate. I give you a month before you’re either gone mad from Bradford or you reek of baby shite at practice games.”

Liam tilts his head and responds with a cleverly displayed middle finger. He chuckles when Louis shrugs and drowns in the _‘we’re gonna rattle this ghost town’_ until his mind settles on one thing: _Lily_.

“You’ll help, right?” Liam wonders, shoving back onto his knees and fiddling with the wrinkled instructions.

“Payno, I’ve got six younger siblings and I’ve only changed a diaper _twice by force_ ,” Louis laughs, spilling a few sips of red wine across his low-cut t-shirt and his lips are shiny when he smiles. “Call me when the brat gets to be thirteen and in need of birth control.”

Liam wrinkles his nose at Louis and considers tossing an unused wooden rail at Louis’ head but he’s certain he’ll need it in a few minutes for a support bar or maybe a base but he’s not really sure. He balls up the instructions instead, tosses them at Louis’ head and teeters backwards with a laugh when Louis loses his balance trying to avoid them.

“You nob,” Louis grumbles and Liam’s eyes crinkle up with his grin, Lily watching with wild fascination.

Liam protests quietly when Louis nudges him with wriggling toes and tries to find missing pieces to connect the railing when he hears his front door swing open and the shuffling from the living room consists of loud grunts and misplaced laughter. He tucks his bottom lip behind white teeth and glances over his shoulder when Lily crawls in the direction of the noise.

“ _Leeyum_ ,” echoes from the opposite room and Liam tenses immediately.

“He has a _key_?” Louis hisses, still half-drunk and eyes still that ripe shade of peacock feathers. “I don’t even have a key.”

“You’re an annoying twat,” Liam counters, smirking, “and very irresponsible. You misplace things all of the time.”

“Such as?” Louis challenges but his expression isn’t very convincing, even when he fails to cross his arms over his chest with his wine glass in the way and his coordination off.

“Your lucky footy jersey,” Liam offers, shuffling to his knees before exerting the muscles in his forearms to push himself to his feet.

“Left it at El’s,” Louis replies quickly, curling his lip. “Or that one lad from the library’s, I think.”

“Your car keys,” Liam adds in a singsong voice.

“I don’t own a car,” Louis argues but he’s lying and his smile is giving it all away.

Liam snorts, shaking his head. “Your copy of _the Oxford Shakespeare_?”

Louis scowls and slurps at his wine in defiance. “I lost that on _purpose_ , mate. I seriously hated _Much Ado About Nothing_ passionately and there’s no way I will suffer through another prof’s lecture about sonnets and stage direction,” he explains loudly as Liam shuffles into the doorway, kicking at boxes of toys and eyeing the bare accent wall where he thinks a nice mural of Disney princesses would be appropriate.

“Are you quite finished?” Louis growls, flipping Liam off when he grins over his shoulder.

He stumbles into the living room, leans on the back of the couch while watching Harry shuffle an armful of boxes into the flat while kicking a duffle bag with clumsy feet. His curls are drawn back by an American flag bandana and his necklaces keep clinking together every time he tumbles from boot to boot. It’s a little comical – cheeks stained pink and green eyes hidden behind Ray Bans and a cross earring in his ear like a pirate and all of his ink is on display even though Liam knows it’s a little too cold for that threadbare Hendrix shirt he’s wearing. He’s uncoordinated and barely clears the threshold without tripping over everything – including a curious Lily – before he’s huffing out a breath and pleading silently with Liam.

“Well, don’t be an arse,” Zayn says from the kitchen with a small box tucked under his arm and his leather jacket thrown over the counter. “Help Haz out.”

“Why don’t _you_ help him?” Liam asks with a strained voice but he’s already doing a neat _flip-tuck-roll_ combination over the couch and rushing to Harry’s aid.

“Because,” Zayn replies with a matter-of-factly tone that explains nothing but Liam doubts he was ever really trying to. He waves a dismissive hand at Liam, strings long fingers through his product-stiff hair and unloads an old coffee maker and three mugs onto the counter, a pack of Marlboro’s in the windowsill.

“Quit being a dick, Malik,” Harry scoffs but there’s something pleasant, honey-like in his scratchy and deep voice. “We’re here to make peace, not war, remember?”

“Dude,” Zayn says mockingly but it comes off way too affectionate with the quirk of his lips and the way his eyes wrinkle just a little when his cheeks raise, “stop smoking so many joints between classes.”

Harry nudges Liam with a bony hip and grins away the blush on his cheeks when he whispers, “I don’t smoke, really. Well, not as much.”

Liam swallows a small laugh and nods because Harry Styles is never anything less than desperate for approval from others. He knocks his elbow to Harry’s ribs and steals away a few boxes to lighten his load.

“Well, Styles,” Louis drags out from the doorway of the spare – no, _Lily’s_ – bedroom with the wine glass almost tipped sideways and an indulgent, lazy grin and the tone of his voice isn’t as much condescending as it is gleeful, “it’s been far too long since I’ve had the pleasure – “

“You’ve never had the pleasure,” Zayn remarks with a twitching smile and Liam almost, almost mirrors it but hides behind the boxes instead.

Louis manages to flip Zayn off, slide an almost erotic tongue over his lips and down the rest of his wine all at once before adding, “Where’ve you been lad?”

“Um,” Harry pauses, his voice unsure and throaty, “Here?”

Louis groans, bites his lip in a ridiculously playful form that’s meant to be filthy but it’s clumsy and Zayn hums off the first few bars of a Justin Timberlake tune Liam half-recognizes with Lily at his feet and a tower of boxes already set by the door. He thumps the ones in his arm behind the couch, kicking at a few when Zayn makes a disapproving noise and grins to himself when Zayn misses an attempt at chucking a used teabag at his head.

“There’s more in Harry’s piece of shit melon – “

“It’s a _vehicle_ ,” Harry corrects, shoving loose curls from his face and peeling the sweat-soaked shirt from his chest. Louis watches almost frantically. “My car – “

“Death trap,” Zayn interjects with a crooked smile, fingering at new splashes of ink on his bicep, a neatly woven bandana around his elbow.

Harry salutes him with one finger and spins awkwardly on his heels to move towards the door.

“Aren’t you going to help?” Liam asks over his shoulder, already moving towards the still open door with Lily following. He shakes his head at her, waits until she flops back on her bum with a tiny frown.

Zayn cocks an arrogant eyebrow at him and chews intently at his lip before replying, “Your place, you put the stuff where you want. I’d just be in the way, mate.”

Liam wrinkles his brow and thinks to toss out a _‘fuck off you worthless tosser’_ at him but Lily’s still watching and Zayn turns away before the words can lift off his tongue.

He spends three trips to Harry’s one up three flights of stairs with boxes composed of heavy books, notebooks filled with doodles, and art supplies. Sweat is smeared across his cheeks, over his brow when Louis tosses him a bottled water. Zayn is balancing Lily on one knee from the ratty couch Liam stole from his parents’ house last year – with the help of his sisters – and he’s shoving pieces of misplaced hair out of his eyes when Harry drops the last of Zayn’s bags by the chipped coffee table in the center of the room.

“Careful, sport,” Zayn warns when Liam fumbles a box onto the floor, muscles tense and shoulders rotating to ease some of the tension. “Some of us need our books for _learning_ , not steadying a shit bedframe.”

Liam blinks at him, wrinkling his face. “Fuck off.”

Zayn snorts, gentling Lily onto the couch with a stuffed monkey caught between her incoming teeth and tiny fingers. He pushes off the couch and scoops up the dropped box, scowling before knocking his shoulder against Liam’s.

“Quite the vocabulary, dude,” Zayn huffs, thumbing through the open box filled with framed pictures and Liam barely catches the ones of Zayn with his sisters, his mum, a single photo of Zayn’s father –

He remembers, distantly, Ant praising Zayn’s family and their closeness and the way Zayn’s always, _always_ tried to impress his baba with his artwork or having his poems inked on the brick walls of his secondary school or the local newspaper posting one of his essays on cultural differences within their city. He always thought it was a little endearing, except it was _Zayn_ and that dulled some of the magic of it all.

“You could’ve helped out, y’know,” Liam hisses, dragging his forearm across his forehead, the skin coming back shiny and glossy from the sweat.

Zayn shrugs, biting at his lip and setting the box on the edge of an end table by the kitchen. Its knockoff mahogany with the gloss stripped from the wood and a small, half-living potted plant on the other corner and Liam’s sure it’s only purpose is to hold his mail and comic books.

“You don’t have to be such a dick,” Liam adds, swallowing half of his water in one go before folding his arms. His fingers crunch the plastic of the bottle, tight around the center.

Zayn turns on his heels, narrowing his eyes. “And you don’t have to pretend like you want me here, either.”

Louis whistles lowly, sliding across the cushions of the couch to wedge himself between Harry and Lily. He nudges half into Harry’s lap, ignoring the squeak of protest from Harry’s lips to tangle their legs together with a smirk.

“I never said that,” Liam argues, even if it’s partly true. Even if he’s been wanting to say it since they agreed upon this. Even if he knows he’s doing this for Lily, doing this because he has to –

“You wanted to,” Louis offers between labored breaths escaping Liam’s lips and he shoots him an annoyed look that Louis quickly waves off.

“I think we’re supposed to be quiet while mummy and daddy argue,” Harry suggests with a smirk and a hand cupped over Louis’ mouth. He squirms and yelps, arms flailing and nearly knocking Louis off the couch. Louis anchors him back into place and Harry lowers his eyes with a slack jaw. “Did you just lick me?”

Louis pushes the fringe from his eyes and shrugs noncommittally, pushing his temple onto Harry’s shoulder.

“Seemed appropriate,” he says lazily, thumbing at the scattered tattoos running up Harry’s arm.

“How?”

Louis groans and shoves a hand into Harry’s lap, squeezing a thigh intently until Harry wriggles again and his chest swallows the brunt of Louis’ laugh.

“You’ll learn to love me,” Louis insists, tangling blind fingers into a circus of damp curls and he presses his grin to the thin material of Harry’s shirt until Liam’s sure Harry can feel the heat in more than just his cheeks. “They all do.”

“I doubt it,” Harry giggles, curling an arm around Louis’ scrunched body instead of knocking him away.

“Perfect,” Zayn groans, tucking a cigarette behind his ear. “Another set our of friends get on while you and I just – “

There’s a pause, just a breath of silence between the low hum of Radiohead and the scattered birds outside, with Zayn’s hand in his hair and Liam still twisting fingers around the bending plastic of his bottled water and three sets of eyes watching them for a long moment.

“Forget it,” Zayn mumbles, dropping his chin and Liam’s defenses shatter a little, they fall out of formation when the sun catches the side of Zayn’s face and his cheekbones are sharp like Ant’s and his eyelashes are fanned out long and thick like Jade’s and there’s a noise just to his right.

He recognizes it on instinct, Lily’s soft wails growing erratic and uncontrollable. His muscles contract, that uncertain ache in the depths of his stomach, and his reflexes outrun his mind as he shuffles around boxes towards the couch. Zayn meets him at the halfway, two pairs of arms reaching out for her and Liam manages gentle hands around her waist while Zayn carefully scoops under her arms to lift her.

They’re wrapped around a corner of the couch with fingers brushing over her back to soothe her and Liam’s quiet shushing mixes low, baritone-like with Zayn’s dry lips over her temple and forehead. Their skin brushes somewhere in the center, just brief touches on the way toward her arms and legs for comfort. He tucks a few fingers under the sleeve of her juice-stained t-shirt and Zayn scrapes the dull nail of his thumb over her wrist and their voices collide with a _‘it’s okay babe’_ that Liam almost misses when she hiccups out another whimper before her breathing goes even again.

Zayn has a smile shoved into her hair and Liam’s tucked his arms between Zayn’s chest and her soft skin and it hits him –

It’s like the rush of the tube under London or the sting of the first few days of winter or the bluest part of a flame anywhere near your fingers.

It’s the words _‘I love you’_ said out loud rather than under your breath, for a city to hear or just for the chorus of a slow heartbeat to listen to.

Louis chuckles from the couch, still cuddled against Harry and he’s grinning without the wine now, scrunching his nose. It’s distracting, even with Harry’s fingers in Louis’ hair, and he almost pulls back except Lily’s fingers are twisted in his shirt and Zayn’s got an absent arm around his waist to hold him in place and he’s trying to syncopate all of their breathing but his heart hammers faster than theirs.

“Quite the dysfunctional family already,” Louis teases and Liam wants to argue but Zayn’s fingers freeze on his spine in the middle of an SOS and Lily drools against his collarbone before Louis adds, “Cheers.”

 

(*)

 

He thinks it’s a little colder at the start of October, even between his familiar sheets with fluffed up pillows and his thick jumper discarded sometime after midnight in favor of a bare chest and thick socks, and he half-remembers listening to some old Bon Iver tune through his headphones before falling asleep in the middle of his studies about the four muscles in the rotator cuff. Instead of a quiet _‘only hold ‘til your coffee warms but don’t hurry and speed’_ that he’s thought about inking up the inside of his arm, he’s startled from his sleep by rough sobs and echoing whimpers that are so very, very accustomed now. He can’t quite mute the sounds when he buries his head beneath a stack of pillows and the blankets have gone cold from the icy air outside his bedroom window and his joggers slide precariously low on his hips when he shuffles into a curled position.

 _Thoughtless_ , he thinks when careless knuckles rattle against the archway and he huffs into the warmest parts of the sheets before blindly tossing a pillow in the direction of the noise. Maybe, he considers, it’s the lack of more than four hours sleep each night for the past two weeks or the missed classes for a teething child or the kips he keeps taking in the middle of his favorite professors lectures in the back of an auditorium stuffed with university students trying to further their education rather than –

He’s not a failure. He’s built a foundation on _purpose_ and he once used a Sharpie to mark the inside of his wrist with _‘nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm’_ before a game and he thinks, unconsciously, it’s the only piece of literature he really knows by heart.

“Your turn to change her, mate,” Zayn says from the doorway with a loud yawn and reckless hair and heavy eyes.

Liam blinks in the dark, the pale London moon painting blues and silvers over the shadows and he licks at his chapped lips before shaking his head, falling back into the abyss of sheets and pillows. He kicks at them before whining, “I did it last time.”

He stares at a ceiling for a long moment, still half caught in that place between dreams and reality where everything is blurred right at the sharp corners and his vision is more than a little fuzzy. His fingers twist into the sheets when Zayn scoffs and his nose wrinkles when a pair of dirty socks are flung at his face.

“And I’ve got an exam in the morning, so fuck off,” Zayn snaps in a loose Thor shirt Liam’s certain he stole from his collection and they trade glares with scrunched eyebrows before Zayn stomps off, bare feet padding back towards the couch.

Liam wants to argue – no, he wants to swim back into the ocean of duvets and soft pillows and that white noise of a fantasy where some bloke is sucking him off in his Superman boxers after a sweaty footy match that has him half-hard under the tangle of sheets – but he groans out a garbled noise and rolls to his side for a few, brief uninterrupted moments of restlessness before Lily starts up again.

He’s sinking, _falling_ really, and somewhere between that calm state of lucid and catatonic when Lily’s whimpers grow in volume and Zayn cries _‘Leeyum’_ until he shivers awake. He pushes up on his elbows – a neat move he learned from years of training on the pitch – without much effort and palms at his crotch to severe some of the tension. His chest swells uncomfortably with the sound of Lily’s soaked voice, instinct overriding the want between his bones for more sleep, and he shoves off the bed before regret sticks to the unused muscles and worn ligaments.

He tumbles over the threshold, down the hallway blindly, and he hears her before he sees her. He absently flips on the light in the spare room, blinking through the haze of shadows and the crest of the moon over her cheek, the stars orbiting buildings in the background. He scrubs the heel of his hand over his eyes until the Technicolor splash behind his eyelids dulls and he’s used to this feeling –

The four hours’ sleep a night because Lily’s still adjusting to this new environment. The constant noise around him, whether from the east or the south, because he has _two_ new roommates. The uneasy edge under his muscles, the way he moves off of visionless impulse to slide a pacifier between her lips when he lifts her to quiet the whimpers. It’s the way his skin, his clothes always smell of baby powder after changing her or that sweet jasmine aroma that sticks to him after he gives her a bath – the one his teammates wrinkle their noses at and the girls around campus arch an eyebrow toward. He’s fallen into humming broken off lyrics from old nursery rhymes his sisters taught him rather than Drake or Lupe now.

He blames it on the distraction of the pale moonlight or the cloud of stardust painting the sky a halogen-like mauve or the twinge under his bones from _absolute exhaustion_ and they all seem like plausible answers to why he’s back in his bed, Lily curled to his bare chest, with his head sunken into the valley of pillows and the quiet streets below playing out their favorite lullaby. His teeth gnaw at his bottom lip and he’s halfway through _‘lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice’_ with dry lips and a heavy tongue – and thinking about his mum, back home, calloused fingers picking apart notes on an acoustic guitar – when Zayn shuffles in with bed hair, loose shoulders, an oversized hoodie, and baggy boxers.

“Budge up,” he grumbles with a voice hoarse from sleep and Liam only half complies because, _fuck you Zayn Malik_ , he’s still slightly annoyed.

“Shut it,” Liam warns lowly, knocking his ankle against Zayn’s hip when he crawls up the mattress, over the sheets.

“Piss off, she sleeps through almost everything,” Zayn mocks, his scruff scratching at Liam’s bicep when he’s close enough, “Including your horrible singing.”

“I’m not horrible,” Liam protests but it’s a flightless argument, a heavy exhale passing through his nose. He thumbs along her tiny, curved spine and grins at the way she sputters out a sleepy breath.

“You’re not,” Zayn mutters back, pressing a grin into a spare pillow. “But you’re still boring.”

Liam thumps an elbow to Zayn’s chest rather than forcing out words and laughs breathily into her hair when a wounded sound echoes over the walls. The moon plays a kaleidoscope of shades, pale pastels over their skin, and Liam does his best to look away from the silver tint of Zayn’s taut muscles, the sharp shine of his tattoos under this dull light.

“She’s a handful, when you’re not around,” Zayn admits, shyly, into the waves of sheets and Liam ducks his chin to watch long fingers stroke over her small ankles, the soft stretch of her calf. “I mean – I can handle it. I’ve got younger sisters, y’know.”

Liam nods, teeth still redefining the shape of his bottom lip. He tips his head further back for the cool press of the moon.

“It’s tough,” he whispers, his voice still rough and clouded with exhaustion.

His eyes flicker down to the ink around Zayn’s wrist, the roots of the microphone, the branches of the chord wrapping around his forearm and the splattered darkness at the pulse point. Zayn’s chest is pressed to his elbow with a mesh of sheets shoved between their hips but they’re so close and Liam barely notices –

No, he doesn’t mind and it _scares_ him, temporarily.

They’re a mix of latitudes and longitudes, their limbs spread out over Liam’s small bed. It’s supported by a cheap frame he bought off some kid in his second year and, to Zayn’s amusement, there’s copies of _the Lord of the Flies_ and _Don Quixote_ keeping it level and it’s the one thing that reminds him of home here. The reminder that he, unlike Louis or even Niall, came from nothing and was happy kicking half-deflated footballs around his mangled backyard in Wolverhampton while pretending to be Beckham or Giggs.

“Have you thought about, y’know,” Zayn pauses, stretching the tendons in his neck to look up at Liam with thick fringe in his eyes, “the adoption stuff? Like, the things the lawyer went over with us?”

Liam swallows, hums something sweet and undisclosed before stroking fingers over Lily’s shoulder. The street lamps and cloud-heavy moon sting his retinas and he ducks his chin to nose at Lily’s hair rather than respond because he has but –

“Class in the morning,” he says, instead, with a grungy voice, and Zayn’s eyelashes flutter silk and uncertain in his peripheral.

Zayn smirks, knuckles shoving over the sheets and pressing into Liam’s hip. There’s a dizzy skyline in the background that’s something out of Rembrandt or Picasso but he’s too captivated by the almond – no, _copper_ – in Zayn’s eyes when he whispers, “You know I’m not going back to the couch.”

Liam snorts, his nose wrinkling absently before he wiggles a few toes against Zayn’s calf.

“Get out,” he hisses, trying to force out the malice but it comes off a little too fond and he swallows back the downright _shameful_ yelp of embarrassment but does little to hide the neon pink saturating his cheeks.

“No, s’cold out there, man,” Zayn argues with a smile, shuffling closer. His legs twine around Liam’s, childlike in manner, and his fingers wrap around Liam’s spare wrist. “The floors are freezing and you’re hiding my favorite socks.”

 _The ones you threw at me_ , Liam thinks but he succumbs to the inescapable warmth of Zayn’s body as an alternate to arguing.

Liam fights against the tide swelling in his stomach to curl an arm around Zayn’s midsection, hauling him upward until his hair tickles just beneath Liam’s jaw. He ignores the huff of breath Zayn releases. Instead of supporting Lily’s limp body on his chest, with the pacifier spat out for deep breaths, his free fingers dive into the cuff of Zayn’s sleeve to press against clean skin while Zayn fixes her starfish-shaped form over Liam’s ribs. He bites at his tongue, watches Zayn’s fingers skim the thickness of her hair before he leans in closer.

“She smells nice,” Zayn mumbles with Liam’s hip pressed to his waist and cold toes brush the edge of Liam’s ankle until he shivers.

“Dude, you’re sniffing her,” Liam laughs, his voice still that gravel texture he’s used to in the depth of the night.

Zayn shrugs, rubbing at her back. “She smells a little like you.”

“Gross,” Liam groans but refuses to shove Zayn away.

He waits in their suspension of touching limbs and skin pressed to foreign regions and it’s incredibly soothing in ways it shouldn’t be. His body complies with nature and he blames sleep, the lack of, the need for it but it’s not enough reasoning when he cuddles closer to Zayn and grins at the early morning stubble that burns his collarbone pink with its texture. Lips catch over his birthmark, unraveling him slowly and, on the tip of his tongue, _‘you’ll see your gypsy’_ sits until he’s certain Zayn’s asleep –

And the breath he didn’t know he was holding escapes with the words, clouding his thoughts and coating his lungs until he’s a victim of his own exhaustion.

 

(*)

 

“Frozen pizza or chicken parm?”

Liam remembers, almost absently, their first year at university – he and Louis, not Jade – was spent half studying and the other three-fourths in petrol stations and the nearest Tesco finding microwavable box dinners and easy recipes for Sunday meals. Usually, the trolley was stuffed with frozen items or inexpensive beer but Liam thinks, unconsciously, that diet of chocolate and London Pride actually helped keep him fit for football season.

He grins over his shoulder as Louis tosses a box of corn flakes and whole milk into the trolley, bypassing the frozen section completely with Lily sat in the front seat watching everything with wide eyes. Her tiny fingers grip around the push bar and Liam ignores Harry’s gleeful wail from where he’s sat on the end of the trolley like he’s riding a damn rollercoaster. He rubs a gentle knuckle against her nose until she twitches and Louis smirks at him, perfectly brilliant, when they harmonize to the _‘you float like a feather in a beautiful world. I wish I was special; you’re so fucking special’_ playing in the static of the overhead speakers.

“We’re meant to be shopping for the baby, Lou, not you,” Liam notes, using Lily’s bib to dry the drool slipping past cherry lips.

Louis shrugs, reaching for a can of beans. He’s pretending to list off the nutritional facts rather than glaring at Harry with those cheeks a blithe pink and his smile so wide it bares all of his teeth. Liam catches him and they trade knowing looks before Louis flips him off.

“I’m sure Lily would not object to pepperoni or supreme – “

“No pig,” Zayn insists, moving in like a magician’s trick from the left of Liam. He hip-checks Liam away from the trolley to crowd into Lily’s space and brush their noses together like some wild Eskimos.

She giggles, head swung back, and Liam wants to admonish Zayn but he finds it impossible to do when it’s the first time Lily has smiled in hours and the genuine crinkle of Zayn’s eyes, the scrunch of his nose leaves Liam _breathless_ –

And he knows that’s so cliché but he’s not good with words or adjectives or any of this.

“You can’t force her to be like you, Malik,” Louis chastises, wedging himself next to Harry between the produce aisle and Liam watches Harry shrug, fold a long arm around small shoulders and they’re so obvious.

“Just like you can’t force yourself to be anything other than a complete arsehole,” Zayn hums, wrapping stealth fingers around Liam’s wrist to drag him and the trolley toward the foreign spices.

“I take that as a compliment,” Louis announces, loudly, even to the scattered looks of the other shoppers.

Liam blushes, tucks his chin and scoots into Lily’s eye line for a distraction but Zayn just laughs and sneaks a few fingers over Liam’s spine to calm him. It works, the _bastard_ , and he shoves his grin down until Lily’s lips part for a smile that leaves him dizzy.

Harry whispers _‘I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo’_ in time with the distant music and his curls are shoved back by a poorly tied scarf, Louis’ fringe tucked behind an ugly purple beanie and it’s the first time Liam’s notice the way Louis’ slowly adopting Harry’s poor fashion choices. His rolled up jeans are replaced with sweats and he’s wearing an oversized university jumper, sparing the view of his new ink, with a Harry Styles attached to his hip and they’re nothing like Jade and Ant were – still that look of mates rather than _casual fuck sessions_ and the visual apprehension in their bones when they touch for too long glows like neon in the dark – but no one ever comments on it. No one except Niall but _Niall has an opinion on everything_ , Liam thinks.

“Your mate is a twat,” Zayn says in the in-between of maneuvering through the bakery – where Harry steals a few biscuits for the trolley and Louis swoons over the scent of lemon meringue – while Liam stocks canned Cokes and granolas in.

“Yes but,” Liam grins, swatting Zayn’s hand away from the chocolate bars on display, “he’s much better than yours.”

“That’s an inadequate response,” Zayn tells him with a sheepish smile that blinds Liam.

“I don’t even know what that word means,” Liam laughs, ashamed and abashed, and Zayn squeaks out an offended sound, poking a finger into Liam’s hip until he dances away with an embarrassed giggle –

And he can hear that sound in his mind, on repeat, every time Zayn looks at him for too long until the blush staining his neck and the top of his chest sets fire to his skin.

Zayn toys with the snapback on Liam’s head, turning it backwards with a smirk, when they fumble down the children’s aisle and Louis’ scratching off items on a makeshift list that’s more smeared Sharpie and a few tattoo ideas for Louis to mark up his skin with. Louis’ got his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, Harry’s calm hand – _he’s like the sea_ , Liam thinks, all subtle and sleep waves in the morning before turning the tide for a roaring funnel in the afternoon – in the dip and Zayn keeps his distance when they share too many glances. Liam pretends not to notice, busying himself with Lily and her ecstatic laughter anytime Harry makes a joke.

“Carrots?” Liam asks when Louis holds up a small jar.

“She hates carrots,” Zayn sighs, nudging past Louis to look over the galaxy of flavored baby foods.

“Oi, what kind of monster hates carrots?” Louis hisses, shoving back at Zayn before haphazardly returning the jar to one of the shelves.

Zayn rolls his eyes, mutters a _‘not a monster’_ under his breath that Liam almost echoes but he keeps it in the hollow of his throat while watching Zayn’s flannel hitch up when he bends down to examine the selection of flavors. He can make out the last few knobs of his spine, the gold of his skin, the unmarked flesh, and something flinches in his joggers, briefly.

“Gravy and mash?” he asks with a strained voice that he hopes goes hidden until Louis cocks an eyebrow and his cheeks flush immediately.

“Gross, dude,” Zayn whines, holding up a few jars for Harry’s approval rather than Liam’s.

“Mashed banana” Harry suggests with that slow drag, scratchy voice.

“Brilliant,” Zayn concedes while Liam folds his arms, narrows his eyes.

“She needs vegetables,” he argues, Louis nudged to his hip like a sidekick and Harry laughs into the collar of his trench while Zayn scoffs.

“And you need to get laid, tight arse,” Zayn scowls, tossing a few jars into the trolley before those pink lips twist defiantly and he scuffs the floor with his boots while walking away.

Liam’s shoulders fall, dejectedly, and he waits a whole three seconds before curling his shaking fingers around the bar to push the trolley down the aisle behind him. He hesitates, briefly, when Louis budges up to him and lips drag on the shell of his ear to whisper a _‘he’s probably right, bro, because it’s been like a_ year _since you had a cock up there and I can recommend a few choice lubes and some willing members of the opposing footy teams that would willingly loosen you up’_ and Liam threatens Louis with his eyes rather than words until he’s scurrying away into Harry’s welcoming arms.

He hates all of them, minus Lily, but Zayn especially.

 

(*)

 

There’s something about pre-season practices that he absolutely loves –

Like watching all of the freshers trying to keep up with the seniors and half of the boys begging off laps for past ankle injuries and sidelined newcomers who can’t stop swallowing back flavored water, only to vomit it back up six minutes later when their incredibly _lethal_ routine overwhelms them –

And he’s absolutely certain that Louis plans these three hour practices to weed out the weak – or to show his dominance because he kicks his feet up on the metal bleachers and calls out drills because he’s _Captain Tommo, you degenerates_ – but they always reignite an inferno between his muscles and tire him out halfway through and he’s always smiling when he looks around to find himself the sole survivor. It’s a proper distraction from courses and the lack of sleep and the cold snap of middle October air and this sudden weight pushing down on his shoulders because _‘you two will have to make a decision on whether or not you’d like to proceed with adopting young Lily because she needs a stable home and solid parents and you’re so_ young _, Mr. Payne, are you certain?’_ keeps echoing in his head when he finds time to breathe again.

He thinks, distressed with sore muscles and sweat still dampening his clothes underneath his loose jumper and stretched sweats, it’s the reason he’s absolutely shocked and wide-eyed the moment he shoves open the door to his – _their_ , he remembers – flat to find the atmosphere soaked with old Amy Winehouse and Lily clapping happily from her highchair in the kitchen while Zayn dances clumsily around in a stolen Union Jack tank top and chinos. It’s incredibly difficult to hide the grin on his lips, even behind his large gulp of blue frost Gatorade and the sleeve of his hoodie when he drags the excess away with his forearm, and something fizzles bright in his stomach when Lily claps off beat at the sight.

There’s steam from a pot fogging up the kitchen and a hill of clothes piled onto one side of the couch and it’s the messiest his – no, _their_ – flat has ever been but it feels more like home than this place has ever been.

The pasta is overcooked, he can tell, and there’s a tray of burnt garlic toast on one of the burners and Zayn’s using a wooden spoon – which Liam’s used to smack Louis around with more than he’s used to actually cook with – to stir another bubbling pot of grossly red sauce. There’s a strong hint of cardamom and red pepper from the sauce, hints of star anise and mint that sting Liam’s eyes when he shuffles closer, dropping his heavy textbooks on the end table next to Zayn’s small collection of _Daredevil_ comics. He can almost taste the _heat_ , overwhelming, before his teeth bite at his bottom lip and Zayn looks up, completely embarrassed with sweetly pink cheeks and a nervous twist to his lips.

Liam raises a curious eyebrow, streams his eyes over a giggling Lily whose cheeks are dusted with flour and mouth stained a bright ruby from the sauce. She raises her hands elatedly toward him, a _‘pick me up’_ she can’t quite say, and he can’t help the furious pace of his heart or the dumb smile that smacks his lips.

“I’m a shit cook,” Zayn announces, over the roar of _‘why don’t you come on over, stop making a fool out of me’_ from the dock station and he’s half-singing into the wooden spoon like a microphone by the stove while Liam uses a damp cloth to clean Lily’s face.

“Understating a little, yeah mate?” Liam snickers, clumsily dodging Lily’s sticky fingers as she tries to twist them into his sweaty practice shirt.

Zayn huffs and tosses a few raw noodles at him before adding, “My mummy is brilliant in the kitchen, though. She makes great curry, really spicy stuff. Sick samosas.”

Liam nods with a corner of his lip bitten between teeth, supporting Lily in one arm while pushing stray fingers through her hair.

“She likes the spicy stuff, too,” Zayn says in a half-whisper, an unmistakable shyness that coils his spine and stains his cheeks again. He sputters a laugh, takes casual sips of a shared beer before stirring the sauce again. “Ant did too.”

“Jade hated it,” Liam notes, brushing flour from her cheek with a thumb. “Can’t quite take the stuff myself.”

Zayn snorts, knocking his hip to Liam’s when he leans in to streak her bottom lip with cooled sauce, grinning widely as her eager tongue quickly licks it away. He’s got his chest to Liam’s spine, an arm curled around to rub at her cheek and a chin on Liam’s shoulder and Liam’s muscles tense for a few lines of _‘Valerie, why don’t you come on over’_ before the strain from practice gives way.

He nudges back, unconsciously, and he wants some sort of diversion from the euphoria of Zayn’s warmth or the way the sting of pushing back into that chest centers him in this hurricane. He nudges his chin to Lily’s forehead instead, echoes her laughter.

“Then I suppose she’s like her baba,” Zayn mentions, fingers scratching over Liam’s to press to the softest point behind her ear.

Liam watches her try to mimic the last word, shiny lips pliant and a soft jaw working back and forth. They’re awkward, twisted around each other when Liam strains his neck to look back at Zayn with a curious lift to his eyebrow and Zayn hides half of his face in the nape of Liam’s neck, auxiliary fingers squeezing at Liam’s hip for the _‘shut it’_ he can’t say against Liam’s skin.

“I’ve been teaching her a little Urdu,” he confesses with a stammer, a scrunched brow, teeth tugging nervously at the collar of Liam’s shirt. He looks wound up, swaying to the melody before whispering, “If that’s okay? S’cool, right?”

Liam looks surprised, he knows, and his immediate response is nothing but blinking eyes and a slack jaw. It takes him a whole heartbeat – and Zayn’s nervous bottom lip almost chewed raw – before he nods, turns just enough to fill the space between their skin with Lily rather than the obscure words they haven’t gotten a grasp on yet –

And they’re the kind of words Liam knows he’ll _never_ associate with Zayn because he’s vulnerable and Zayn’s a _dick_ and that kind of poetry is meant for novels, not shitty cooking in a small kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah,” Liam breathes out, switching his line of vision from the pretty view of Zayn’s smile to Lily’s docile eyes. “That’s brilliant, mate. Cheers. I’d like that for her.”

It’s a crowded moment with the noise of changing songs and bubbling water and overzealous sauce and Liam imagines Zayn can hear his heartbeat over all of it but that sounds rubbish. He shoves it aside – the thoughts because the rhythm behind his ribcage is a bit erratic now – while Zayn chuckles at the mess surrounding them.

“Dinner’s fucked, yeah?”

Liam giggles, mutes the sound against Lily’s cheek because it’s girlish and completely emasculating. He fumbles a hand behind Zayn into a drawer, snatching up a takeaway menu and a snapback from the counter and Zayn looks grateful when Liam shoves it over his ruined quiff rather than Liam’s own head.

“I know a great little place two streets over that serves ace pizzas with all of the dressings,” Liam offers, carefully handing Lily over to Zayn to strip off his damp shirt – and he pretends not to see Zayn watching the contour of his muscles and pretends even harder not to rotate his tendons for show, for the reaction he gets – before sniffing at a few used jumpers on the couch for a semi-clean one.

He bites at his lip while slipping into a pair of old boots, pushing back his hair as Zayn buttons up Lily’s coat, adding, “And there’s this really nice bakery at the corner that stays open pretty late. They make decent gulab jamun. We could stop in for afters?”

Zayn bites at his lips until they’re white and swollen, like he’s trying to hide his smile – or a secret or a question – and those long eyelashes flutter in an almost flirtatious way like _‘Liam Payne, how dare you, you’ve had me fooled all of this time and you’re so clever, you – ‘_ but Liam knows that’s wishful thinking or something similar to it so he looks away while Zayn slides into a leather jacket and shoves an unlit cigarette between his lips. But he can’t quite get away from the fingers that circle his wrist, right under the strip of a feather he recently inked there and he tries to ignore the reflexes that twist their fingers together. He doesn’t look at Zayn, maybe to hide the flush in his cheeks, but he squeezes back and leads them out the door without a word.

He doesn’t complain when it takes them twenty minutes to agree on a pizza or the way they take the scenic route back to his – _their_ – flat with Lily tucked between them, her legs on Liam’s cocked hip and her head pressed to Zayn’s chest to fight the cold, and a box of greasy chicken and pineapple and a bag of pudding and syrup-soaked donuts. They argue over film choices while Lily messes her Supergirl onesie with juice and Liam only gives in when Zayn feeds him the first slice of pizza, greasy fingers catching on his lips and it’s amazing, really, even with the addition of dull nails and Zayn’s matching smirk. He punches Zayn’s shoulder and chases him around the couch when he wipes his fingers on Liam’s shirt and Lily watches with bright eyes and a sticky smile.

They watch _the First Avenger_ to avoid doing the dishes with their bare feet kicked up on the coffee table. Liam’s only a little anxious when Zayn tucks himself under Liam’s arm to rest comfortably with Lily asleep in his lap, the blue glow from the television washing out the color in his skin and the dark room thickening the shadows around his stubble. He laughs into Liam’s collarbone at the poor acting and takes to feeding Liam leftover donuts between scenes and it’s incredibly _simple_ , incredibly –

He’s still no good with words or phrases but he’s certain he remembers Jade, a long time ago, whispering _‘the world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places’_ after a year-long study of Hemingway and he’s never been courageous enough to repeat the words out loud, or into someone’s skin when he’s weakest.

“I still hate you, Leeymo,” Zayn mumbles, half-asleep but his fingers are contradicting with the way they grip his shirt.

Liam smirks, kicks at Zayn’s ankle until he pleads forgiveness. “Hate you too, you dick.”

There’s half-muttered dialogue in the background and his eyes are heavy but he twists an arm around to rub fingers at Lily’s scalp while squeezing Zayn just a little tighter to keep both of them close.

 

(*)

 

He swears Louis is more into Halloween than anyone he knows, with the carved pumpkins and smeared on zombie makeup and the visits to haunted manors and night clubs afterwards. But, still, he humors him every year with another Batman costume he drops too many quid on and a flask of their favorite pineapple rum and a night of snogging all of the wrong strangers – who keep trying to find the zip for his costume or the continuous _‘does that bulge come with costume or are you really that hung?_ ’ that he hates – except this year. And Louis is understanding, as much as he can because he’s still more of a toddler than Lily ever will be and pouts for the week leading up to that one night but he concedes when Liam promises horror films and a _drunken Harry Styles_ out of pity rather than friendship.

He’s indulgent, still, when he dresses Lily in a Batman onesie and fumbles on _It’s the Great Pumpkin_ while Zayn eyes him warily from a stack of heavy textbooks and an essay on Greece’s best literary greats – and Liam recognizes a few like Homer and Aristophanes but plays coy when he sees names like Mesomedes, Plato and he couldn’t name any of the Nine lyric poets that Zayn goes on about for half an hour. He sticks out his tongue, instead, and pulls the cowl up on Lily’s costume until the floppy ears stick up. She blinks up at him curiously, gumming her fingers until the itch of incoming teeth subsides, and he leans down to press a messy kiss to her forehead, brushing back the fringe.

“Hey, beautiful,” he whispers with an unconscious grin and her giggle in his ear.

“She looks ridiculous,” Zayn mumbles, an hour later when he flops down on the couch next to Lily with soft hair pushed back and his glasses sitting on his forehead. His body goes completely slack, like he’s learning to release the stress from schooling and watching over Lily while Liam’s at practice and the constant negotiations with the adoption committee because _‘you two still have not made a decision and a child’s life should not be left in suspension like this, this is not very grownup of you boys’_ and Liam feels empathy rather than sympathy for him.

Liam ignores him in favor of sliding into a matching Batman t-shirt with his skin still pink from the steaming shower and his hair falling into his eyes. He brushes it back, stretches all of his calm muscles until his bones reset and he pads bare feet over the hardwood toward the kitchen.

“Would you rather her be the Flash?” Liam asks over his shoulder, starting a kettle for tea and instead of text books cluttering the table, bowls of candy replace them.

“Something girly, at least,” Zayn complains, picking at the cotton of her onesie. His lips quirk, incidentally, at her shiny smile and anxious eyes. “Wonder Woman?”

“She’s not fit for battle amongst Amazons, Malik, you know that,” Liam teases, hopping on the counter while waiting for the water to boil.

“But she could save an entire city from rogue villains?” Zayn challenges, narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms.

Liam shrugs, a half-smirk on his lips and thick eyebrows casting shadows over his cheeks. He inhales deeply before replying, “Kid’s got the stamina for it. Plus she has you for a sidekick, Boy Wonder.”

Zayn pouts and flips him off with a chuckle. “Cheesy, Payno, very cheesy,” he laughs, fitting his bottom lip between sharp white teeth. “You’re so fucking comedic.”

Liam arches an eyebrow in disbelief and Zayn scowls at him for his ignorance, dragging back Lily’s cowl to slide indulgent fingers into her hair until she crawls up into his lap.

“She could’ve been Black Widow,” Zayn suggests, curling a forearm around Lily’s stomach until she stops squirming.

“That was your least favorite character from the film,” Liam argues in soft tones, pushing off the counter to drop black tea into a mug, clicking off the burner to stop the whistling kettle, and he lets it steep for exactly six and a half minutes – a trick his sister taught him to dull the sting – before adding three drops of milk rather than cream.

Zayn raises a protesting finger with a wrinkled brow. “Untrue,” he whines, scrubbing his knuckles gently over Lily’s cheek as she stuffs her mouth with a toy duck, giggling. “ _Agent Hill_ was a complete distortion of – “

Liam groans immediately, chucks his used teabag at him before he can finish and forces his grin into the sleeve of his shirt when Zayn whispers _‘but Lil would’ve made a beautiful Agent Coulson’_ with a sideways smirk.

“Stop using big words around her,” Liam teases, dropping his mug onto the coffee table while rearranging a few pillows on the open spaces of the couch.

“You mean around _you_ ,” Zayn huffs back, lips twitching into something resembling a smile when Liam passes.

Liam’s response throbs on his tongue and his eyebrows shoot up as Zayn wiggles a toe into his hip but his reflexes fail him at the last minute and Zayn’s arm twists around his waist at the right angle to knock him off balance, kicking at the table and spilling half of his tea across a coloring book. Zayn’s a little faster, even if Liam’s a lot clumsy, and he’s a pile of limbs in Zayn’s lap with a grin pressed against his birthmark, fingers squeezing bruises into his hips and Lily’s manic laughter drowns out the heavy breathing trapped in his throat.

It’s a lack of oxygen or his body’s refusal to break down complex particles but he’s lightheaded with dull nails scratching at his chest through the cotton and Zayn’s just so close. The pink of his bottom lip is in Liam’s peripheral and one of Liam’s feet is shoved between the cushions and Zayn’s nose brushes his cheek unintentionally when he moves his mouth to the shell of Liam’s ear.

“You’re no Bruce Wayne,” he whispers and Liam swears the edge of his tongue strokes the tiniest hint of skin.

“But you’re a _Dick_ ,” Liam hisses back but his muscles move on their own accord to twist further into Zayn’s lap rather than away.

“Cheeky,” Zayn snickers with warm breath over Liam’s cheek and a few fingers stroking the waistband beneath his jeans. “And quite the douchebag.”

Liam stutters out a breath and squeezes his eyes shut to blur the image of Zayn’s smile, waits ten seconds – he counts each one like tearing petals off a flower with a chorus of _‘he loves me, I hate him’_ spread on his lips – before Lily tugs at the cuff of his jeans and he tumbles out of Zayn’s grasp. He uses her like a defense, a _shield_ even – _with or without the puns_ , he thinks – and an excuse to soak up the tea with one of Zayn’s old jumpers before carrying her away to her highchair for dry cereal and apple juice.

He can’t quite force the color out of his cheeks or the way his teeth bite into his lip, not when he glances over his shoulder to see a smile on Zayn’s lips with his glasses crooked on his head and his shirt still wrinkled from Liam’s fingers twisting in it.

“So boring,” Zayn sighs, rolling away to open another textbook and Liam wonders if he ever hears the _‘fuck you, you’re beautiful’_ over the opening of the updated _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ in the background.

 

(*)

 

Louis comes by with cartons of Thai takeaway, bottles of beer, and a shamelessly shy Harry attached to his arm. He plays ‘Thriller’, on repeat, eight times – and makes Liam do the routine with him for at least _four_ of those times – until Niall shows up with apple crumbles and a phone shoved between his cheek and shoulder. Zayn whispers to Harry about it all until Niall’s cheeks burn an embarrassingly deep pink and he stumbles into the kitchen to finish a chat with a pretty girl from one of Harry’s classes, Leigh-Anne, who is mocha eyes and a cheeky tongue and the kind of distraction Niall needs from studies.

“Seriously, how do you do it?” Louis asks from his spot on the couch, with Lily wedged between him and Harry.

He sips at his beer, dressed as a skeleton with black and white makeup smeared into a skull over his face, hair slicked back, and feet kicked up on the coffee table. Liam refuses to comment on the bits of face paint stained over Harry’s cheek, around his mouth like they’re more than casual chats and study sessions at Louis’ loft.

“Do what?” Liam asks from the floor, on a mountain of pillows and blankets. He’s upside down, watching the television and all of the best bits of _Scream_ with rows of chocolates and sour candies by his head and he thinks, instinctively, he’s never been happier than in this one place with his mates and Lily – even with Zayn, when he’s quiet.

“Like, how do you,” Louis waves a hand around for the missing words and Liam scrunches his brow until he adds, “How do you change her diaper? How do you give her a bath? You know, with all of the, like the _girl_ parts?”

“Vagina,” Harry mouths out, slowly with an indecent tongue. “The scientific word is vagina, Lou.”

“Oi, fuck off, I know what it’s called,” Louis snaps, smacking Harry’s shoulder before pressing a rough kiss to his dimpled cheek, ignoring the wide smile it produces. “I’ve seen it in its natural habitat, thank you.”

“You _what_?” Zayn asks from the kitchen, knocking Niall out of the way for a carton of spicy chicken stir fry and noodles.

“I’ve ventured into the great depths of the female ocean, you douche,” Louis calls out, ignoring the burn of Harry’s cheeks or the protesting noise Liam makes in Lily’s defense. “I’m just saying – I don’t quite get how you could, you know, work around that while changing a diaper.”

Liam pulls a face, folding his arms over his chest and he cranes his neck to offer Louis a scowl before sighing, “You do realize she’s lived with us for nearly two months now, right mate? I think we’ve quite got used to it.”

Louis shrugs, steals quick sips of his beer and the broccoli from Harry’s plate. It’s dripping with soy sauce and Louis deliberately sucks his fingers clean for Harry’s view before grinning at Liam. “Doesn’t make it any less weird,” he notes, saluting Liam with his beer. “Cheers to the vagina.”

Zayn barks out a laugh, Niall cupping the end of his phone to whisper a _‘no, we are not talking about the female reproductive system on Halloween, we are_ lads _and only discuss bitter and blowjobs on nights like this’_ that shakes a smile over Liam’s lips. He stretches wide on the floor, curling into his cocoon and grinning when Louis slides down next to him, flopping out like a starfish until an arm knocks Liam’s nose and their legs vine around each other.

“Harry’s weird,” he mumbles into Liam’s neck, dewy breath drenched with beer while Zayn climbs into Harry’s lap and feeds Lily bits of torn up chicken.

Liam snorts, curls an arm around Louis’ neck. He shoves a mini-chocolate into Louis’ waiting mouth and whispers, “Zayn is too. ‘s a good thing I’m not trying to date Zayn, though.”

Louis groans shamefully, fisting his fingers into Liam’s shirt. “I’m not trying to _date_ him,” he says, dramatically with sighs and exaggerated breaths that amuse Liam. “Just some casual – “

“Nothing is casual with you, Tommo,” Liam insists.

“ – shagging at my place every Thursday,” he finishes with a lazy punch to Liam’s shoulder. “And Fridays. Saturdays if he’s lucky and definitely Sunday afternoons after tea. Twice on Tuesdays because I can’t fit him in – “

“Trying new positions this month?” Liam teases with a laugh tickling the shell of Louis’ ear and he drops a hand on Louis’ chest just for the stutter of his heartbeat.

“ – on Mondays, you twat,” Louis huffs, tipping his head back to watch the killer chase another victim down. “But we’re not dating.”

Liam nods, pulls at Louis’ collar until his eyes can trace over the _‘it is what it is’_ staining his skin. “That’s not casual and it’s sort of dating.”

“We’re not dating,” Louis snaps, dragging his voice down when Harry arches an eyebrow and Zayn scrunches his nose in disappointment. “Not by choice, at least.”

“It’s by choice if you’re the one calling him,” Liam tells him, breathing the words into Louis’ neck.

“Oh shut it,” Louis scoffs, shoving at Liam. “And what are you and Malik doing? Playing parenthood while eye fucking each other every ten seconds? It’s still dating, even if you’re not shagging. Playing mummy and daddy to Lily still counts.”

“We’re not – “

“Switch off with me,” Zayn interrupts before Liam can finish, straddling Liam’s knees while pushing a fist into Louis’ hip.

Liam’s startled quiet and Louis’ downright smug grin when he sits up, hair completely undone and teeth bare for Liam’s view, sets a fire across Liam’s bones and into his blood. He corrals his breathing while Louis flashes Harry a smile, winking and tossing a _‘gladly’_ over his shoulder at Liam like he knows something Liam’s trying to hide –

He’s not and he doesn’t twitch when Zayn crawls down next to him and there’s not tiny goosebumps left in the wake of Zayn’s knees caging in his thighs seconds before.

Zayn steals a few candy corns from Liam’s pile, feeds Liam licorice until his muscles stop contorting in the wrong direction, and there’s a moment of silence between them before Liam finally looks at Zayn.

The glow from the television highlights the shine of amber amongst the gold and his jaw is shaven, hair still mussed from earlier but in an artful way that Liam’s certain only Zayn could pull off. He’s got a stupid grin on his lips and sauce from the chicken staining his fingertips and his Green Lantern shirt rides up his belly until Liam can see a thin strip of hair sliding low, lower into the waistband and –

He sighs, defeated, and looks away quickly. Fingers tangle beneath the collar of his shirt, warm and careful, before they press at the nape of his neck and he reflexively tilts his head to give Zayn more access. There’s a song from earlier, between classes with Louis outside a bakery, that sits roughly on his tongue and he almost, _almost_ whispers the _‘there is a fire in the dark when I close my eyes and it’s keeping me up at night and it’s making me feel alive’_ when Zayn presses down on the last vertebrae.

“I miss her,” he says with a gravel-like voice and eyes tilted toward the screen. “She was always great with kids. Absolutely ace, I swear.”

Zayn’s smirk is a fuzzy, reckless sight from the corner of his eye. Fingers catch in the thick hair on his head and he shuts his eyes to the _‘I’ve got a flashlight summoning up the stars’_ in the back of his mind.

“I think,” he starts, pressing into the touch, “she’d be genius with Lily right now. She’d do so much better than – “

“I don’t think we’re that shit at this,” Zayn admits, even lower with a smoke-steeped tone. His dull nails scratch at Liam’s scalp and he shuffles a little closer. “Well, I’m not that bad. You? Yeah, you’re bloody awful, dude.”

“ _Zayn_ ,” he groans, the sound on the verge of euphoric but he grips the last letter to stop it.

“Seriously, I’m quite gangsta with this parenting thing,” Zayn teases, biting at his lip.

Liam shakes his head, corners his laugh in his throat and waits until Zayn’s fingers still before blinking at him.

“We’re doing good, yeah? I mean, we’re raising her right?” he wonders without a way to disguise his nerves.

Zayn nods, lips turning upward. “We’re good, man. We’re killing it.”

“Idiot,” Liam laughs out, his eyes crinkling and mouth going pliant and his heart a little too near his tongue.

“She could do a lot worse,” Zayn mumbles, bumping a few knuckles against Liam’s chin to turn his head and Liam watches, carefully, while Harry feeds Lily soft, sour gummy worms and Louis tangles his fingers in thick curls with the world blurring around them. They exchange tense stares and Louis’ tongue slicks his lips and Zayn barks out a _‘not in front of my little girl’_ that startles them and shoves an uncomfortable feeling into Liam’s chest because –

He’s never says it aloud, neither of them have but it’s a thought. It’s a question and a paragraph of reasons not to and a million different solutions to _why_ they can’t but still.

Still, somehow, she is _theirs_.

 

(*)

 

And he sits up until the sun comes up, until he can’t hear Zayn’s breathing from the couch or Lily’s mumbles in her sleep or the rage of his heart in his blood with the sheets tangled around him and sweat slicking his skin.

He sits in his bed, between cold cotton and aching skin and thinks he’s an absolute idiot for ever thinking they could pull this off.

Because she’s not theirs.

Not officially, not documented, not in any subtext but his own.

 

(*)

 

But he spends the next morning sipping his tea, watching a sleepy Zayn make coffee while Lily crawls around their feet and pretends, for a few seconds, this is how it’s supposed to feel.

 

(*)

 

It’s midway through the first week of November and too close to exams when Lily wakes up with a fever and ruins Liam’s favorite Oxford with the dinner from a fortnight ago. He hasn’t really thought out these things – insurance and a primary doctor and _healthcare choices, they’re so important to a child_ his mum reminds him after he calls her in a slight panic – and he misses his first two classes while Zayn’s at the library – even if Niall offers to watch her but Liam’s certain he can’t even take care of himself, most days – to haul her to the nearest care clinic. Two hours in a waiting room and a doctor _half his age_ he swears, later, he picks up a few prescriptions and a promise from the female advisor that _‘it’s just an acute stomach virus and it’ll pass in twenty-four hours, it’s common’_ before his nerves calm behind the walls of their flat.

She spends the day straddled to his hip with her head pressed to his chest and they both skip dinner for a marathon of _Superman_ films with his fingers in her hair. She naps across his stomach when he lays out on the couch to study a few anatomy notes – dropped off by that kind, gentle Mary who’s old enough to be his mum but is restarting her life by revisiting university courses – and her fever calms an hour before Zayn drags lethargic feet into the flat with half of a smile and pale skin. Liam’s certain it’s from the cold, something Zayn doesn’t argue against. They’re both quiet when Zayn scoops her up, rocking her back to sleep and knocking Liam’s legs away to take residence on the other half of the couch with a few comic books and a collection of art books.

“This week,” Zayn drags out, holding up a textbook with Lily clutching his shirt, “is Van Dyck and Will Turner.”

“Like from _Pirates of the Caribbean_?” Liam wonders.

Zayn coughs out a laugh that rattles Lily, cupping a hand around her spine to calm her. “You have no form, mate.”

Liam scrunches his eyebrows, thinks to force Zayn to explain himself but he settles for nudging Zayn’s hip with a foot and starting up _Man of Steel_ again. It only takes twenty minutes and half a bag of red vines before Liam catches the euphoric sounds of synchronized breathing and the helpless smile picking apart his mouth when he watches Zayn’s chest elevate and descend with Lily perched on it might be the most shameful he’s looked in months.

There’s a shiny gloss of sweat across Zayn’s forehead, the peak of his cheeks and his skin is still missing spots of color but it’s the most relaxed he’s looked in a week and Liam cheats his senses, fishing fingers between the cushions to find his phone and snap off a few quick pictures – for the intent of embarrassment, not for adoring – before he pries Lily away and brushes back the fringe of Zayn’s hair. An unconscious tongue licks at chapped lips, Zayn curling in on himself for a moment and Liam struggles to balance Lily in his arms and stare at Zayn. He tucks his grin between his teeth, brushing his cheek against her forehead to test the temperature and turning away to walk down the hall has never been quite that hard before.

He tucks her into her crib with a thick afghan to drain the rest of her fever, her favorite stuffed monkey, and a chorus of _‘you should let me love you’_ rather than ‘London Bridge’ before stringing a line of messy kisses across her temple. He ducks his head to hide his grin when he plugs in the silly Power Rangers nightlight that Zayn swears isn’t _his_ from home and clicks off the lights with the door still ajar.

He’s only halfway to his room and a comfortable bed with cold sheets and thick, thick pillows when the echo of Zayn’s heavy breathing makes him falter. He barely notices the pale glow of the bathroom light or the partially open door but something in his chest constricts when he finds Zayn pinned to the toilet with his cheek pressed to the slick surface of his forearms and his legs crumpled beneath him. His hair keeps falling into his eyes each time he takes an unsteady breath and it’s like the air around him is too dense for his lungs to breathe in.

“Go away,” he says immediately, his voice hoarse from his last dry heave and the harmony of browns and autumn gold in his eyes are hidden behind drooping lids and thick eyelashes.

Liam quirks an eyebrow, leans in the doorway instead. “Too many beers with Haz or summat?” he teases, uneven strokes of his teeth against his lip disguising his grin when Zayn’s lips part for a small smile.

“I wish,” he chokes out, coughing, using the back of his wrist to scrub away the residue of something awful. “Lou was right – _she’s a monster_.”

Liam crows out a sound of displeasure, leans far enough in to kick at Zayn’s foot. He doesn’t fight back and discouragement sets a weak shiver into Liam’s cells.

“They say when you get sick from children, it’s the – “

“Ask me if I give a fuck what they say right now, ‘kay mate?” Zayn snaps, trying to lift his head but it’s a poor attempt and he crumples back around the toilet for another lurch of his body and a vile sound. He coughs and flushes away the vomit, sighing almost helplessly.

Liam eyes him for a long moment, arms crossed over his chest and he thinks of leaving Zayn right here. To his misery. To his unreciprocated feelings that Liam’s so damn brilliant at avoiding because it’s _Zayn_ and he can’t find kind, proper adjectives to associate with such an arrogant piece of –

He sighs and unguided fingers reach out to brush the hair from Zayn’s forehead, almost retreating when they skim over skin and feel the fever attacking Zayn’s body. He chews at his lip until its sore and there’s a struggle before he’s on his knees, over the tile, circling Zayn’s waist with his arms.

“Fuck off, mate, ‘m fine,” Zayn argues but his body doesn’t give up resistance when Liam hauls him to his feet.

“You’re not.”

“You’re no doctor.”

“No, but you are an arse,” Liam grumbles into the sweat-soaked skin of Zayn’s neck and they’re a tornado of misplaced limbs, awkward positioning until Liam perfects it enough to steady them. “A very sick arse, but still.”

Zayn mumbles something into the hollows of Liam’s collarbones that sounds like _‘fuck you and thank you, my hero’_ but that sounds daft and Liam’s certain he’s too exhausted to interpret it differently. He anchors him down the hall while Zayn drags his feet like a child. He skips the obvious destination, half-turns midway through their struggle and it takes him a little longer – a lot more exertion of muscle – but he manages to kick open his bedroom door and lower Zayn onto the bed with just enough sweat dampening his shirt dark.

“No,” Zayn whines when realization sets in, “take me to the couch.”

Liam shoves him up the sheets, across the duvet and into a valley of pillows before scowling down at him. “Shut up, you donut.”

Zayn’s lips part to argue again but Liam flexes his jaw, curves the muscles in his shoulders for the effect and Zayn bites at the tip of his tongue with a yelp. Even in the dark, his eyes shine and the pale shade of his skin looks warm and his ink overpowers his forearm until Liam’s distracted and misses Zayn sliding out of his damp shirt, curling under a thick blanket. He sighs helplessly, pushing fingers through thick hair until it’s off of Zayn’s forehead and presses a rough knee to Zayn’s thigh in retaliation just because he can.

“If you wake her, I swear I’ll shred all of your Punisher comics,” Liam warns with a pointed finger.

Zayn scrunches his face up, a childish move that wins Liam over for a second before he thumps a fist to Zayn’s shoulder and rolls out of the bed.

“No cheap tricks,” he adds over his shoulder and a pair of rolled up socks just misses his head when he escapes out the door.

He spends ten minutes debating his options, with _Sherlock_ playing in the background and a pile of books he needs to read on the table and an untouched draft paper due next week but he spends another twenty minutes setting the boiling water, steeping tea with milk and hints of caramel and sneaking a few leftover macaroons onto a plate. He balances the tea and the plate of sweets with one arm, stealing a copy or two of _the Ultimates_ under his free arm and bites down on a small grin when he tiptoes down the hall and nudges back into his room.

The moon beams and the street lamps – and the hint of sweat from the fever – paint Zayn’s face a glazed silver that Liam almost falters for but he remembers, quickly, that night in the pub and he knows it’s just an illusion. It has to be or he might just –

Shoving those thoughts down and pressing the hot mug between Zayn’s palms and a macaroon between his lips before he can argue is the easiest things he’s done in hours and maybe he’s a little abashed at how that sounds under the beat of his heart.

Zayn sips slowly at the tea with a scowl and a stiff jaw. Liam watches the flex of muscles in his forearm as he strains to reach for another biscuit, the contrast in size and the delicacy in his artwork and it’s _almost_ a distraction.

“Tea?” Zayn asks with a garbled voice and a frown.

Liam corners his smile before it threatens to grow too wide, folding his legs under himself and picking at loose threads on his duvet.

“My mum is a bit of a hipster,” he pauses and catches the smile Zayn shoots him when they both say _‘like Harry’_ in unison, under their breaths, before he adds, “She’s always been like that, I reckon. A diehard Stevie Nicks fan who plays guitar and solves every problem with hugs and kind words.”

Zayn nods, licking away the excess milk, curling his fingers tightly around the mug like comfort and _‘sounds wonderful’_ is waiting on his tongue.

Liam grins, lowering his eyes from the glint of Zayn’s eyes. “But she makes absolutely ace tea when you’re sick,” he says, quiet and shy. “It helps.”

Zayn nudges him with wriggling toes, ducking a smirk behind the lip of the mug before sighing. “Want coffee.”

Liam rolls his eyes instantly, shoving fingers between the sheets until they wrap around a bare ankle and he pinches the skin before soothing it with gentle, absent strokes that play a diversion to Zayn’s calmed breathing.

“You never really,” Zayn swallows, reaching for a deep breath of oxygen before slumping down the headboard, “You never really chat about home, much. I don’t know, like, much about that side of you. Other than what I’d ask Jade about.”

He looks anxious and regretful about the admission, drifting his gaze from Liam but the flush of his cheeks glows neon and Liam _swears_ it’s more than just the fever. He swallows down more tea with the clouds an inky grey outside, the stiff scent of wet London streets leaking through the window and Liam picks out all of the city lights like stars in the background of the landscape.

Liam’s thumb maps out the bones in Zayn’s ankle and the reaction – a smile, a flutter of eyelashes, the little wrinkles around heavy eyes – almost shatters him.

A loud, loud _almost_.

He reaches out to ruffle fingers through Zayn’s hair instead, pushing off his bed when Zayn succumbs to the soft cotton and mountainous pillows and worn springs beneath him. “G’night quiffy,” he says with an automatic smirk and a thumb sweeping back loose threads of hair.

Fingers coil loosely around his wrist, right over the _‘only time will tell…’_ and _‘stay’_ whispers slowly over Zayn’s lips before he can pull away. The dark smudges half of Zayn’s features and he’s nearly buried beneath the duvet but under the heavy lashes and unsure wrinkle in his brow, Liam thinks there’s a definite amongst the _teenage wasteland_ Zayn wears daily.

Zayn bites his lip, tugs a little firmer. “Just for a little while, mate. My mum would sat with me when I was sick until I fell asleep.”

Liam runs his eyes over the ink stitched up Zayn’s arm and considers the alternative but his reflexes respond quicker than his brain and he’s tugging back the duvet, sliding between warmer sheets with a pliant body pressed to his side. He’s curving an anxious arm around round shoulders and pressing dry lips to a hairline and he’s never been so _uncertainly positive_ about something in his whole life –

Not that night in the pub or the day Lily was born or the _‘we’re sorry for your loss, sir’_ he still hears in his dreams when he thinks he’s climbed over that hill.

 

(*)

 

 _There were no survivors_ wakes him in the middle of the night but Zayn’s stubble to his chest, the hair caught between his lips when Zayn groans, the wiry arms with strong muscles that curl around his waist keep him afloat when he’s sure, he’s so damn positive he drowned months ago keep him steady for a little while long.

 

(*)

 

He thinks he dreams the _‘good morning’_ kissed to his collarbone the next morning when the sun is eerily pink and orange, streaking through his thin curtains, and his bed is cold, _freezing_ when his eyes flutter open an hour later.

Like Zayn was never there.

Except the scent on his pillow, the wrinkled shirt between the sheets, the empty mug on the corner of his nightstand says something completely different.

And _almost_ sits heavy, dense on his tongue while he sleeps through his first morning class.

 

(*)

 

It’s a Friday and they’re halfway into term papers, a week away from early exams, and Liam’s spent a better part of the way losing his shit over meetings with child protective services – _‘we want what’s best for the child, Mr. Payne, you know this’_ – when his mum rings him up to meet with a lawyer-friend, who’s rough on the exterior but, Paul, sits down with Zayn and Liam to go over a few alternatives with a calm voice and an urgent need to make them comfortable. He’s almost too nice, with the sleeves of his button up shoved up to his elbows while explaining _injunctions_ and paperwork that Liam doesn’t quite understand but Paul does it all with a smile and a promise to _‘keep her yours as long as you want her.’_

Something loose crawls up his bones after that and, when the sun sets and streaks the sky a gorgeous purple, it intoxicates him with adrenaline and electrodes and dopamine until he’s a little helpless to this feeling on the sidelines of the pitch for a charity game he almost forgot about. And maybe it’s the roar of the crowd, that certain kind of rush he gets from echoing chants that feels so familiar. Or maybe it’s the way Louis keeps giving them speeches that sound better than anything Mel Gibson or Russell Crowe put together in those films about men and wars.

And, just maybe, it’s the way Louis tugs at his uniform midway through the game and jerks his head towards the crowded bleachers where Lily’s screeching happily in Zayn’s arms and Liam’s never felt so _proud_ when Zayn shoots him a pleased grin.

“Yours?” Max asks after a large gulp of Gatorade and a towel tossed at Liam’s head.

Liam grins into his shoulder, chases the sweat down his forehead with a waterfall of water and steals Louis’ lime Gatorade before he can finish it.

“Mine,” he whispers, shoving down the elation in his voice but he can’t – _won’t_ – disguise the electricity that shocks through his nerves.

“She’s cute,” Max mumbles, elbowing a few of the other players away before they’re huddling in around the benches.

Liam bottles his smile, dragging the sweat off his forehead with the towel and chucking the empty bottle into a bin.

Louis nudges him with a manic laugh and damp hair before yanking Liam in close with a devious tongue at the shell of Liam’s ear.

“Look like a proper family in love now, don’t you,” he teases with unshaven cheeks and pinching fingers.

Liam knocks him away quickly, digs the toe of his trainers into the pitch as a diversion but it doesn’t work. Louis’ smugness glows fluorescent and Liam’s never been more thankful for the whistle blowing in the distance, a signal to move back into formation. But Louis’ breathy laugh chases him up field until he finds it impossible not to glance over his shoulder to that small section where Lily’s tugging at Harry’s curls and Zayn’s watching him, watching the way his muscles move under his jersey and the strain of his calves and the ripple of tendons when he moves into position –

And the distraction plays unnecessary melodies under Liam’s breath until he’s lost on the _‘somebody misses you when you’re away’_ pushing down on his tongue.

He keeps looking over his shoulder and grinning whenever Louis passes him the ball and he _knows_ he looks stupid and dumb with crinkled eyes, pink cheeks, lips spread too wide for a goofy smile but he thinks Zayn looks at him like –

The world has always looked on him like he was _plain_ and simple and ordinary but _Zayn_ , he stares at Liam on this green field like he’s important and complex and _extraordinary_ and all of those other words that break apart in his cells, fuse to his bones, start a fire in his veins.

It takes him a lot of deep breaths, even after the final whistle and at the end of the game when the bleachers clear out and a mass of spectators fill the pitch, to recover and find his middle ground but he does before all of his teammates crowd him, shoving neon colored Gatorades and fresh towels at him. He buries a laugh in Louis’ cheek while ink-smeared arms draw him into a hug and he fist bumps as many passing bodies as he can on the way to _nowhere_ until he’s somewhere in the middle of swaying green and vertical white lines. His lungs reach for clean air and he empties a Gatorade in thirty seconds flat before Harry tumbles over to them with pushed back curls and a thick trench.

“That was bloody brilliant,” he exclaims with his dimple highlighted and his grin so wide, “even if I have _no idea_ what the fuck I just watched.”

“Excuse you,” Louis squeaks like he’s practiced the definition of _offended_ while Liam scrubs the sweat from the long line of his neck, his nearly exposed collar.

Harry shrugs, drags his boots over the pitch while his cheeks burn a pinwheel of pastel pinks.

“I watch American football,” he confesses with a tipped up chin, shoving away the embarrassment for an expression that could be nothing less than a _Harry Styles original_.

Louis scoffs but picks away the sweaty jersey from his skin before making his way under the wing of Harry’s arm. Liam bites roughly at the smile he’s concealing horribly and Louis grins back like _‘why hello there sunshine, I already know’_ is sitting at the edge of his teeth but their eyes say all of the big words their mouths can’t.

The stadium is buzzing from the pre-season victory and the rubbish speakers are blaring a hint of something familiar, something like _I’ve had the time of my life_ and Liam focuses intently on anything other than memories of watching _Dirty Dancing_ with his sisters every summer until the crowd scatters and Zayn edges forward through a mass of bodies and then –

_‘… and most of all I'm scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I'm with you’_

He sucks in a breath at the way the harsh fluorescent lights of the stadium strip the natural glow from Zayn’s skin or the way his quiff sits upright with too much product but he sort of loves the pull of the brown leather jacket over his shoulders, the dip in the collar of his Henley, the way his jeans sit loose but cautious around his hips and he’s so _thankful_ when Lily’s squeal draws his attention. He blinks down, between a dozen set of legs to see her wobbling over the pitch with spread arms and wriggling fingers and a certain kind of excitement in her face. Her steps are off, unbalanced, and he thinks back for a few brief seconds –

It was a Sunday evening, somewhere in the middle of _Spider-Man 2_ and a pile of unfinished term papers and Zayn reciting the first few paragraphs of his rough copy on Karl May, with Liam falling asleep to the sound of his timbre, when Lily pushed up onto instable feet and stumbled across the room to retrieve her stuffed monkey. He can almost hear the sharp breath Zayn took in and their shared shrieks and _‘camera, camera, Li, get it on video’_ before she was tumbling to the ground again with a sputtered laugh. His skin still burns from where their fingers twisted around each other and the press of their thighs together when they held her up like a trophy and Zayn’s smile pressed just firm enough into his neck that the sensation refused to go numb for hours.

“Careful Lil,” Zayn calls out but she’s perfected her waddling on two very unsure feet until she collides with Liam’s knee socks and he ducks down enthusiastically to sweep her into his arms.

“Watch it mate,” Harry warns, a smile still shoved into Louis’ damp, pulled back hair. “She’s been eating loads of candy.”

“That _you_ fed her,” Zayn scolds but the corners of his mouth quirk up so quickly at Harry’s innocent expression.

There’s a giggle to Liam’s left and he half-turns with Lily grabbing at his hair toward a classmate, Emily, with her neatly buttoned checkered pea coat, carefully worn beret, pinks cheeks and large, large brown eyes. He smiles back when her dimples flare, shuffling his cleats further into the pitch for balance.

“Your daughter is quite beautiful,” she admits, toying with the end of her dress and her knee socks are low enough that the pink staining her skin shows at the edge of her thighs.

“Thanks,” he stammers back, supporting Lily on one arm – out of practicality, not to show off – while free fingers rub at the nape of his neck.

She giggles, lips puckered and eyes roaming. “Your boyfriend is too.”

Liam blinks at her and it takes him almost thirty seconds, and far too much blush, before he realizes. “Oh, he’s not my – “

The word, with its two syllables and array of consonants, is wrapped tightly by his tongue but an arm is shoved around his slack shoulders and Zayn presses a messy kiss to the corner of his mouth before its nine letters can escape. He does his best to refrain from a frown and smiles awkwardly when Zayn grins back at her, eyes scrunched and nose wrinkled and teeth flashing.

“Thanks,” Zayn smirks, yanking Liam in closer and Liam mumbles a _‘twat’_ into the collar of the brown leather.

Emily winks at him, smiles properly for Zayn, and strides off with a grin before anything else can be said. He waits until her silhouette is a clear half a field away before shrugging away from Zayn without jostling Lily but he doesn’t move too far because Zayn looks so smug, accomplished and he wants to punch the look off of his face –

Or kiss it off but that’s utterly ridiculous.

Liam tilts his head at him while Zayn readjusts his jacket, slides a cigarette behind his ear, looking almost too cool for any of this.

“Jealous much?” Liam says in a half-teasing tone until Zayn’s mouth curls into a sneer.

“You don’t think she was massively ruined over losing an opportunity to snog you, do you sport?” Zayn says mockingly, curling fingers around the nape of Liam’s neck with a thumb dipping below the collar to stroke the edge of Liam’s spine.

“You’re rubbish,” Liam laughs but doesn’t pull away.

Zayn shrugs with sharp cheekbones, beating eyelashes that frame dangerous eyes and, just for a second, Liam goes helplessly still for the look on Zayn’s face. But he remembers Zayn’s hair product all over the bathroom sink and his textbooks taking up much of the dinner table and stealing half of the pillows when they’re studying together while Lily watches reruns of _Scooby Doo_.

He remembers that first night in the pub and –

“She’s getting to be a handful,” Zayn comments with the breeze and the open air knocking pieces of his hair out of place. He’s devastatingly casual with his fingers, mending it back together with a grin directed at Lily. “Another trip to Selfridges for more safety locks?”

“Bullocks,” Liam smiles, his face wrinkling at the way it overtakes him. “Took me almost an hour to get the last one off the toilet just so I could take a wee. Almost pissed me pants before class the other morning.”

Zayn laughs, bright and unusual with the way it echoes off empty seats in the stadium. He jabs playfully at Liam’s shoulder and leans in to smack a kiss to Lily’s temple and they fit so comfortably in this small space, suddenly so warm and happy.

“We need to celebrate,” Zayn announces, dragging fingers through Lily’s swaying hair. “Homemade spag bols?”

Liam giggles. “You’re a shit cook.”

“You can help,” Zayn offers with a crooked grin and gentle eyes and their fingers almost twist around each other on Lily’s head but hesitance centers itself in the middle.

Louis clears his throat roughly like he can’t help but be noticed. His hair is shagged from Harry’s fingers and his neck looks a little worn from love bites they never talk about but his eyes read _careful my young apprentice_ and Liam tightens his jaw at the definition behind Louis’ lips.

“Remember you’re supposed to go out with the team tonight?” Louis suggests with a strained voice. “That fit bird Sophia is waiting to buy you a drink and snog your face off, I’m sure.”

The oxygen swirling down his throat catches in his chest and Zayn tenses immediately and they’re unison swaying that he hadn’t noticed until ten seconds ago stops mid-verse. Louis gives him another careful look, a raise of his brow that has Liam struggling to look past Zayn, to look _through_ him because it’s easier to focus that way. And Zayn’s hand is far now, rubbing at Lily’s knee rather than near Liam’s wrist and they’re uncomfortable.

They’re _normal_ again.

“Um, I probably shouldn’t,” Liam stutters, leaning in to rub the incoming stubble from his chin over her head, “I don’t want to leave her – “

Zayn’s reflexes are immediate, hands reaching between them to gentle Lily into his own arms. Liam relinquishes his hold absently, blinking at Zayn. Zayn smiles back but it feels so far from genuine.

“Don’t worry,” Zayn says a little loudly like he’s trying to prove something. “I’ve got her. We’ll watch _Thor_ again and she’ll help me sort through Keats.”

Liam thinks to argue, knows he could but Zayn grins like _it’s okay_ is on his lips and shifts back before Liam can muster words. He nudges at Harry and groans impatiently when Harry peppers Louis’ neck with goodbye kisses and fades off into the background with Lily looking a little lost.

And Liam waits until the blur behind his eyelids goes static white and the itch under his fingers for Lily’s soft skin and the throb behind his lips for a laugh Zayn causes and the _‘I’m sorry for your loss, sir’_ goes mute from where he stands on the pitch.

 

(*)

 

Liam wakes up too early to a quiet London and soft humming that’s not Lily, but distinctively Zayn, and the sky is that clever haze between soaked purples and ocean-struck blues just before a sunrise. He shuffles bare feet over cold floorboards and blinks at the darkness still coating the hallway and almost tumbles into the spare bedroom when he finds everything tiled in newspaper and unfinished essays with Zayn standing in the middle of the wreck. There’s cans of paint around him and Lily’s crib is shoved into the wrong corner and rolled over spray paint cans around the edges and that once bare wall opposite him is now dressed in Marvel characters and a cartoonish Batman and a giant Green Lantern symbol near the border of the ceiling.

Liam swallows, scratches at his stomach through his t-shirt and the cuff of his joggers keep his heels warm on the cold floor when he steps inside the room.

“Where’s Lil?” he asks, his throat still scratched from sleep and his voice rough from exhaustion.

Zayn raises his brow with a sheepish look over his shoulder. There’s scattered colors – bright reds, gold that turns yellow, varied greens, deep blues – over his fingers and slashed across his Misfits shirt. His hair hangs soft and low over his eyes until he shoves it away, streaking it white and peppermint blue.

“On the couch,” he mumbles with his bottom lip shoved between his lips. He drops a paint brush into the rubble around his bare feet and shuffles sideways until Liam can get a proper look at the Iron Man stretching from one wall to another.

“She had a nightmare. Gave me a right fright when she woke me and I couldn’t be bothered to put her back down,” he adds, crossing his arms to admire the rest of his work.

Liam sniffs, the air toxic with fumes and he’s not sure if it’s the sleep or the chemicals that makes him dizzy but he floats on it for a second like catching a wave in the Pacific.

“And you decided to paint?” Liam wonders, shuffling a little closer until their hips almost brush.

Zayn nods, sighing. “Creativity is the most liberal form of visual art.”

“Says who?” Liam challenges with a scrunched brow. He takes in the Wonder Woman emblem, the half-done Batgirl near the base board.

“Me,” Zayn retorts, a little smug but very quiet.

Liam scrubs rough knuckles at his eyes until the bursts behind them explode over the walls, licking away the dryness from his lips with a rough tongue.

“We agreed on either clowns – “

“I added a Joker,” Zayn points out, a comical Heath Ledger rendition just under Batman’s cape.

“ – or ducks, mate,” Liam sighs, knocking his hip against Zayn’s.

Zayn rolls his eyes instantly but pushes back just as quick, tangling paint-sticky fingers around Liam’s elbow to balance him. His eyes remain on the wall, fixated, and Liam stares for a long time with him.

“She’s gonna hate it when she gets older,” Liam mutters with a smirk, dazed by the way Zayn’s face wrinkles. “She’ll want to cover it up with proper things like sports. Footy or basketball. She likes ‘em.”

“She does not. She _tolerates_ your shit,” Zayn mumbles, a thumb stroking messy lines up Liam’s bicep, “like I tolerate you. There’s a difference.”

“There’s a difference,” Liam repeats slowly like it’s a foreign language. He wrinkles his brow and rubs rough knuckles up the dip in Zayn’s spine until he’s rattled. “She’d want ducks, mate. Or monkeys.”

Zayn sighs an exasperated sound, flicking at Liam’s rib. “Our daughter – “

There’s a stilled pause where Liam takes in a breath and Zayn chews his bottom lip ruthlessly and his words sit between them like an ocean. They prickle against Liam’s spine until he doesn’t mind the way they fit between his armor. Until the thought isn’t outweighing the purpose and he rocks his hip until it bumps Zayn’s and their lips don’t discuss what the words mean but their eyes swear it was an _accident_ –

Not a mistake. Lily is far from a mistake.

He waits until Zayn’s soft smile is in his vision again and they take to pointing out their favorite characters amongst the collage rather than picking apart the lies they keep telling each other.

“She’d like this,” Zayn promises with a fresh paintbrush in his hand and Liam helping to outline a few of the still drying characters on the wall. “She’s a bit nerdy. Like us.”

 _Like us_ , Liam thinks with a wide grin and a palm stained with paint and speckled colors around his feet. And Lily has her mother’s eyes and Ant’s wicked grin but she has a voice that soothes like Zayn’s and bright eyes like Liam’s are in the sun and a tenacity that Liam sees in both of them. It makes his heart hammer loud enough to quiet the early morning traffic and the sun hasn’t quite risen but the room is lit by the neon rainbow from the paint and their hidden smiles.

And he doesn’t know what makes him skim a hand through green paint and shove it against Zayn’s shoulder or spread colorful fingers over Zayn’s forearm but the retaliation comes in the form of a thumb swiping pink to his cheek and knuckles scraping down his shirt with a haze of oranges and gold. He fists Zayn’s shirt, dragging it up to brush blue over the heart tattoo and Zayn laughs into his hair when he splatters dark purple to Liam’s stubble. It’s an assault, an onslaught of reds over clean skin and a mosaic collision of blues, swirled chartreuse against Liam’s neck and to the bits of his chest that Zayn can reach.

They laugh and slide over the floor and knock over paint with Liam’s nose under Zayn’s jaw and Zayn’s hands smudging colors to Liam’s hips until they smack into an untouched wall. It’s a playful fight with tickling fingers leaving behind newly created shades and laughter echoing off drying walls and Liam brushes dry lips to an Adam’s apple when Zayn shoves a hand up his shirt to twist fingers over clenched muscles.

It’s a heavy breath and crinkled eyes and Liam blames everything on the fumes, he does, when he leans up and presses his lips to Zayn’s.

It’s soft, uneventful, and Liam thinks it’ll go down as one of the worst first kisses he can remember until Zayn hitches a breath, presses a knee between Liam’s thighs and kisses back.

No, he mouths out every syllable his tongue can carry and licks Liam’s lips open and breathes permission into Liam’s lungs.

Cool fingers still coated with paint angle his jaw and Liam presses his spine to the wall rather than thrusting his hips to Zayn’s but he steadies his lungs to kiss Zayn like he has no other option. Like he wants this. Like it’s a _need_ and it’s grown too large to survive beneath his skin and _Zayn_ , oh, he kisses like he feels the same way.

Their kisses drag and they have to learn each other’s technique but Liam welcomes the warm tongue, fists Zayn’s shirt and drags him closer and this kiss doesn’t scream _‘this is a love story’_ but it roars _‘this could be something magical’_ with Zayn’s fingers dying his hair a patterned blue.

His spine sits with a lethal coil around it when Zayn takes to mouthing little words against his neck and there’s a hand shoved down his joggers with his fingers pinching at Zayn’s shoulder, caressing the soft skin at the nape of his neck. His hips roll, voluntarily, until Zayn palms at his cock and there’s a rush of air fleeing his lips when Zayn smiles against his birthmark. There’s a cock pressing against his thigh and his swollen lips part for a quiet moan just before Zayn leans up to kiss him again.

He flicks his eyes down to his colorful forearms where handprints linger and the muscles beneath his skin twist to grab Zayn’s hips, tug him close until their shirts rut up and their cocks grind and he lets out a helpless noise that Zayn laughs at, kisses off his tongue. There’s a flare down the center of his chest, his teeth and tongue adding new colors to Zayn’s neck, to the base of his throat that won’t fade off in the shower and Zayn’s encouraging with small whimpers, desperate twists of his hips, fingers back in Liam’s hair.

“Harder,” Zayn nearly growls, rocking back against Liam.

Liam’s a little more coordinated with unused fingers untying the knot of Zayn’s pajama bottoms. He gasps at the way Zayn shoves his joggers down to his knees and flexes his biceps when gentling Zayn’s bottoms to his thighs, taking the oxygen from Zayn’s lungs like smoke in the air. Their bare cocks meet, send a shock up his stomach like a lifeline and Zayn’s grin against his lips isn’t arrogant – it’s trusting.

They shuffle over the newspaper and Zayn shows all of the strength in that tight skin, those wiry arms when he spins Liam and shoves him up against the wall. He brackets him in with one arm, a hand splayed over the wall next to Liam’s and the spare one pulls Liam’s hips back enough that his cock has room to curve up to his belly without the pressure.

“Wank off for me babe,” he whispers, filthy and with a smirk, “while I open you up.”

Liam squeaks a defiant noise but shivers when suddenly wet fingers trickle down the small of his back, between the cheeks, pressing gently at his hole until he can’t help the reflexive quiver that follows.

“Always knew you were tight,” Zayn laughs breathily but his fingers continue to tease, stroke absently until Liam growls and shoves back at them.

“Just,” Liam hisses, waits until Zayn presses a fingertip in, “ _c’mon_ , mate. Do it for me.”

“For me too,” Zayn swears, low and a little vulnerable but he slides in to the first knuckle with Liam baring down on a forearm for leverage.

Liam chokes on an inhale, shudders against the wall and fits his hand between the small space to wrap shaky fingers around his cock. He strokes back the foreskin, the head wet and sticky without the paint and there’s not enough glide, not enough lubrication until Zayn leans over his shoulder and dribbles a handful of spit into his palm.

“Better babe?” he asks and it acts as a diversion for the second knuckle, the slow twist of his finger.

Liam nods with his lip caught between his teeth, the fire at the center of his spine spreading. He presses his forehead to the wall marked in their paint and shuts his eyes on the soft moan Zayn lets out behind him. It plays a rhythm in the distance, everything going blurry in his nervous system and the hand that was splayed next to his is now gripping Zayn’s cock, smacking it teasingly against one of Liam’s cheeks.

“You don’t have to be so quiet,” Zayn says with a hiss, sneaking in a second finger that threatens to destroy Liam with the pressure.

His head cocks back for a gentle moan, his hand moving quicker and the wet sounds of his palm and cock stifle his heavy breathing.

“ _Lily_ – “

“Sleeps through anything,” Zayn promises, mouthing out _‘louder’_ and _‘faster’_ and _‘let me see you come apart’_ into his shoulder.

Liam nods, knocks his head against Zayn’s collarbone and his hips stutter when Zayn corkscrews his fingers and presses, presses, a little _deeper_ –

The whine in his throat coasts over his tongue and his knees almost give out when Zayn finds his prostate. He’s shoving his cock over the cleft of Liam’s arse and his knuckles are brushing the skin and Liam feels his defenses crumble. He turns his head just a little and smiles when Zayn’s lips are right there. He swirls into the cocoon and finds euphoria just near his fingertips. His thumb spreads the slit for thick precome and his palm almost dries out so he rotates fingers around the base while shoving the skin back and forth over the head.

“So relaxed now babe,” Zayn mumbles, biting at Liam’s shoulder with a throaty voice, smoke-soaked and that baritone when he moans corners the vulnerable whimper behind Liam’s teeth.

Liam bites a bruise into his bottom lip, loses control over his hips. He sways with Zayn, shudders off the third finger slipping in and he’s drunk. He’s buzzed and intoxicated and his spine arches against Zayn’s chest at the thought of Zayn removing those fingers. The notion of a precome-lubed cock replacing them, rocking inward until Liam’s stretched around it. An aggressive set of teeth marking up his tendons and no rubber, just the sweat and the skin and rotating his hips until Zayn’s helpless and Liam’s shivering around his cock.

Just a pair of hands holding his waist steady and Zayn’s name inked to his tongue and a sweaty, paint-smeared hand sliding down Zayn’s sharp cheekbone just before he –

He stretches his neck for a shallow laugh when Zayn loses his balance, his coordination on the way Liam’s hips stutter and they push against the wall for support. Zayn presses blues and greens to his chest to keep him close and slicks the small of his back with his come. He’s quiet, electric shivers behind Liam but, at the last second, his teeth bite into the valley of neck Liam offers and Liam wets his fingers with his own come. He nuts off against a warm, soft palm and pretends not to hear the _‘beautiful babe’_ Zayn whispers into his skin and the sweat leaves a shiny base coat over the paint streaked across their skin.

The paint and the sweat and their come leaves them sticky and their labored breaths carry above the early birds, everything still that tragically beautiful blur between exhales and Liam can’t focus just yet. Zayn presses him to the wall with his shoulder blades against the rough surface and tacky fingers smearing come over the paint to add an extra gloss over Liam’s stomach. He tenders a kiss to Liam’s bruised lips with half-lidded eyes and a riot on his tongue.

“I promise not to tell,” Zayn swears, his voice hoarse and so intoxicating that Liam almost forgets, “and promise this was just one time, okay mate? Just to get it out. For the sake of Lily, of course.”

Liam grins and he’s anxious against the wall because he _expects_ this.

Honestly, he’s grateful for it.

Or he tells himself he is.

He kisses Zayn back, a quick peck that doesn’t echo as loud as the first few did. No, it’s a whimper and a white flag and an _‘I surrender’_ just for his brain. Just for the sake of it all. For the _fuck off Malik_ he hasn’t said in weeks.

“We both know it doesn’t mean anything,” Liam agrees with a smirk and he feels like he’s found a new talent. He feels _alive_ in the worst way, thumping a colorful fist to Zayn’s shoulder before shrugging away to drag up his joggers and wipe his sticky hand across the back of Zayn’s shoulder.

He stumbles out of the room, ignoring the dazed look on Zayn’s face and keeps his chest puffed out all the way down the hall until he fumbles through the door to his bedroom. He keeps the moment careless, meaningless until he can shove the door closed and slide down the wood to the ground. Until he can draw his knees up to his chest and school his expression and settle the race of his heart.

Until it means _nothing_.

 

(*)

 

During his third year, when his mum quit her second job back in Bradford to spend more time with his younger sisters, Zayn took up a job on the weekends at a knock-off coffee chain and Liam finds it so amusingly cliché to watch him dress in an ugly powder blue apron and pretend to care about shit promotions for rubbish coffee.

It’s a small shop with bare brick for walls, a large window for early sunlight, scuffed up hardwood floors with wobbly tables leaving behind marks, a chalkboard with _‘today’s special is…’_ and a list of a dozen different espresso flavors, cardboard cups and ceramic mugs and a small stereo that plays old alternative for hours. It’s quite unimposing and a little bit cozy and just the sort of place Zayn would boycott if not for the need of a few quid for textbooks and art supplies.

There’s that familiar Green Day song humming in the background when he nudges through the door, Lily straddling one hip and pulling at his scarf with anxious little fingers. He grins into her flushed cheek, peeling off her trashy purple beanie that Louis _insisted_ on buying her with a heady scent of vanilla in the air and a _‘it’s something unpredictable, but in the end it’s right, I hope you had the time of your life’_ ringing in his pink ears.

Lily presses her cold, cherry nose to his cheek and smacks a sloppy kiss that stains a shine to his dimple, unsettling a smile over his lips. He breathes out a quiet laugh and carefully slides out of the stolen letterman jacket from Zayn’s collection before a real-life Zayn comes into sight –

He’ll deny ever losing the pace of his breathing or the stutter of his heart the moment he sees Zayn leaning over the counter with crinkled eyes, a wide smile, and all of his attention given to a pretty blonde with eyes the color of a high tide and a local pink to her cheeks and a scrunch to her nose when she laughs. No, he’ll wave off the anger or that sudden sort of jealous note under his muscles because her fingers trace off a few of Zayn’s tattoos and her artificial eyelashes beat out something erotic. He knows, somewhere, there’s no need for admission to something he’s never felt – _envy_.

No, none of those feelings will ever surface because the moment Zayn looks up and catches Lily staring at him curiously, he grins and there’s a galaxy of stars behind his eyes.

Liam giggles at the small whine that slips past Lily’s lips before she’s squirming down and out of his arms, with a little assistance from him. She stumbles over the hardwood and Zayn laughs sweetly, ditching the blonde and bending the corner of the counter so quickly. He meets her halfway around a few tables and her absolutely delighted scream of content mocks the music in the background and steals Liam’s breath for a few seconds.

Zayn skims a few lazy fingers through her hair, peppering kisses to her forehead until she’s a wriggling mess of limbs. “How is my little _chand_?” he asks with a smirk, dragging an unshaven jaw over her temple.

The helpless smile on Liam’s lips goes a little out of focus as he knocks Zayn’s hand away from her hair, petting it back into place. He sniffs at the way Zayn playfully kicks his ankle and they both help Lily out of her coat as the blonde stomps by with a _‘lose my number’_ hissing off her tongue.

“Did you carry her all the way here?” Zayn asks instead of chasing her down, squeezing Lily a little tighter when she wiggles around curiously.

Liam cups a hand across the nape of his neck, nods sheepishly. He shrugs at Zayn’s wide-eyed glare. “Couldn’t be bothered messing about with that new carriage Lou and Niall bought us works.”

Zayn’s lips quirk, a distant look in his eyes like he’s a bit awed or amazed, and then something genuine melts over his mouth. He jabs at Liam’s shoulder, balancing Lily with little effort, and a laugh seeps off both of their lips when they look at each other.

“Idiot,” Zayn says with a snicker and a hint of disappointment under his breath but he tangles a few fingers around Liam’s wrist and guides them behind the counter, down a narrow hallway toward the back while some doe-eyed bloke watches the till for him.

Lily is anxious and squirmy from the walk, from the cold, from the lack of freedom while being trapped in Liam’s arms and Zayn sits her on the edge of a baking table still dusted with flour while Liam leans against one of the ovens, watching with a nervous smirk. There’s muffled whines coming from her even after Zayn slides a new pacifier between her lips and he dusts off his hands before moving around the tiny kitchen without a word.

Liam clears his throat, watches Zayn clear out a few coffee mugs, set up a kettle, toss ingredients about like a mad scientist. It’s a bit chaotic and amusing and Liam hollows his laugh in the reaches of his throat while Zayn flicks the end of Lily’s nose to distract her from the lack of attention.

“She’s got a few more teeth coming in,” Liam tells him, offhandedly.

Zayn nods, hums quietly to the George Michael’s in the other room. He smears powdered sugar against a cheek, loses himself in the steel refrigerator for a few moments while Liam watches Lily pull apart unused biscuit dough.

He’s got something steaming in a cardboard cup when he returns, blowing away the excess clouds while Lily blinks up at him.

“Oi, mate,” Liam pouts, folding his arms, “you can’t give her _coffee_ , Zayn, Christ – “

“I’m not, you nob,” Zayn scowls, waving away the still rising steam. He smiles down at Lily, thumbing a cheek white with flour before offering her a few cautious sips. He steals a look over his shoulder at Liam, something softer in his expression before he adds, “Its warm milk with caramel. My mum used to make it for me whenever I was upset or had a nightmare. When I got old enough, she taught me the recipe.”

Liam blinks at him for a long, hard minute. There’s something so oddly honest in the curves at the corners of his mouth, something haphazardly affectionate behind his eyes when he looks at her. There’s a twitch to his nose when she sneezes and giggles, taking a few more delighted sips of the drink while Zayn rubs a strong hand down her curved spine. They look at each other like they’re sharing a secret and smile like this world is just for them and Zayn looks so in place, a proper –

He holds onto that, for himself. For another day. For a possible reality that they still haven’t decided on.

Zayn’s careful when he lets Lily hold the cup for herself, steals away to move about the kitchen some more. He sings softly – even with the falsetto and with the notes in tune – all of Lily’s favorite _Bob the Builder_ songs and knocks his hips against Liam’s like he’s _teasing_ when he reaches for a few spices above Liam’s head. Liam sneaks a few calloused fingers over the exposed skin of Zayn’s back when he does, grinning at the way it disturbs Zayn’s equilibrium and he’s ashamed of the girlish squeal that breaks his lips when Zayn retaliates but Zayn doesn’t take a piss at him.

He smiles and picks at a few buttons on Liam’s flannel before shoving away again.

“Peppermint tea,” Zayn says when he shoves the scalding mug at Liam, looking a tiny bit awkward but far from stroppy when he settles next to Liam against the oven. “See, I’m not completely helpless in the kitchen, yeah?”

Liam makes a face at the pungent scent and sips slowly until the wash of something refreshing coats his throat. He’s hesitant when he smiles, hides it behind the lip of the mug until Zayn sighs and knocks their ankles together.

“S’good,” Liam admits, half the words caught on an exhale. He licks away the excess from his lips and grins wide when Zayn twists his lip between his teeth like he’s still uncertain.

“Really?”

Liam nods adamantly, nudging an elbow to Zayn’s. “You did a proper good job, mate.”

“I know,” Zayn whines back, feigning arrogance but Liam sees through it. “I’m a Bradford boy. We’re not shit at anything.”

Liam groans, tucks a laugh between his ribs and swallows down more tea instead of objecting.

They twist their fingers together and talk in soft tones while Lily watches with a tilted head and large eyes. They talk like she’s _theirs_ , like none of the discussions or paperwork or _‘remember – you two are still young and, judicially, that’s not a favorable argument on the side of parenthood’_ matter. Like the school they haven’t finished or the conversations with each other that they haven’t really had are just minor details.

Like planning out their schedules for next year and summers in Wolverhampton in exchange for a winter in Bradford – _‘because our city looks much better in the snow, that’s why’_ – is a possibility.

Zayn fidgets with a smile when the stereo from the other room filters into the kitchen and Liam shields his own grin with his cup, staring at Lily for a diversion – but there’s a stutter in his heart, a new sort of smoke filling his lungs at the _‘I’m the one who wants to be with you. Deep inside, I hope you feel it too’_ that beats between them.

“I’d like her to do some sort of sport,” Liam admits with a stuttered shyness but something brave pulls at his veins when Zayn scratches playfully at his knuckles. “In school, y’know.”

“Of course,” Zayn groans, brushing their shoulders together on _‘waited on a line of greens and blues’_ before Liam can whisper it.

Liam ducks his head, does his best to steady his heart before he says, softer, “And art classes too. She, like, she’s really into drawing things now.”

There’s something heavy on his tongue and it tastes like _‘I want you to teach her’_ or _‘because she’s so much like you and I love that’_ but all of those words feel so inadequate when he lifts his eyes and finds an unrecognizable color staining Zayn’s cheeks. Fingers tighten around his and their forearms brush when Zayn shuffles a little closer and he swears his lips already feel bruised, even though Zayn hasn’t touched him or looked at him or kissed him since that morning –

Harry clears his throat roughly, leaning in the doorway in his favorite trench coat, skintight jeans, and an unsightly orange beanie hiding half of his curls. He’s got something fervent and obvious in his green eyes, wriggling his eyebrows at their tangled fingers and Zayn’s wrist pressing the stain of a tattoo to the inside of Liam’s. His crooked smile shifts a little until Zayn’s cheeks burn for another reason and Liam looks away immediately when Zayn’s fingers slip away.

“I’m in the middle of critical studies and I require a tasty drink, those fattening biscuits, and constant encouragement that only this establishment can provide,” Harry announces, leaning off the doorframe to shrug out of his coat and toy with the bulky sleeves of his jumper. He arches an eyebrow at Zayn, at the small space between them before grinning. “Could you be a dear Malik?”

Zayn snorts with shaky fingers dusting his hair a faded white and he sneaks away with a fist bump and not a spare look for Liam over his shoulder.

“My favorite vanilla latte, Zaynie,” Harry calls out, tugging off his beanie to ruffle his curls. “No extra cream.”

“Because you get enough _cream_ from that slag Tomlinson,” Zayn shouts back and Harry’s shameless about his nod, his supple smirk.

Harry hums off the _‘just to the next to be with you’_ with a gravelly voice when he detangles his fingers from his hair and sidles up to Lily like it’s been years since they’ve looked at each other. He cleans her face of spare flour and stares at Liam like he’s an alien, like he’s a sunken treasure, like he’s an anomaly and Liam’s never felt quite obscure, not since Ant and the low-lit pub and _‘you don’t think they’ll be telling us about their dream weddings and shared bank accounts in a month or two’_ and –

 _Oh_.

Harry smirks while combing long, bony fingers through Lily’s hair. His lips twitch and his tongue flicks away the dryness with an urgency that Liam wants to avoid.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Harry says in this singsong voice that disturbs Liam and he wants to tell him he wasn’t because _it was nothing_ but Harry inserts, “You two looked like a proper couple, for once. Sorted some stuff out, I reckon.”

Liam wrinkles his brow and displays his frown openly while Harry reaches past Lily for a few untouched red velvet cupcakes. His tongue swipes away the cream cheese frosting and he tips his head sideways for a response Liam refuses to give.

Harry shrugs, feeding Lily crumbs. “It wouldn’t be so bad,” he remarks with a scratchy voice that does little to hide his fondness for the situation. “You know, I know I’m not a proper lad to Zayn, not like Ant was.”

There’s a pause like Harry’s reevaluating his words and Liam wants to scoop Lily up, avoid this whole discussion because it’s unneeded and they’re _not like that_ and the thought hasn’t crossed his mind – lately.

“But we’re close,” Harry adds with conviction. “That bloke loves hard, man. He loves this little girl and he loves his family and he loved his best mate.”

Liam bites at his lip, twists against the hard metal of the oven until his spine relaxes but he doesn’t, he can’t miss the _‘he could love you like that’_ Harry attaches between the white noise in his mind.

It stays quiet, the sound of Lily’s poor helicopter imitation and the music and the customers out front, but it’s a roar in Liam’s mind. It’s a complicated noise on repeat and he thinks it’s his heart or the lurch of his stomach but he closes his eyes to find a calm. He nibbles at the corner of his lip and fists his fingers by his side and tries to forget that sweet-sharp hint of peppermint on his tongue.

“I don’t think so,” he says when the world gets a little clearer again, blinking his eyes open to Harry’s clever ones and carefully shaped mouth like the protest is waiting on a signal.

Liam sighs and shoves off the oven to run a hand up Lily’s back, into the soft of her hair. “We’ve been down that road, Haz. And there’s more important things to stay focused on.”

“Such as?”

“What’s best for Lily,” he replies, absently pulling back some of her hair to look at the roundness of her cheeks or the depth of her large eyes or the way she smiles at him like he’s all she’s ever known.

Harry nods, finishes the cupcake and starts in on another one when Lily whimpers out a noise. His fingers are stained red and her mouth is the same color and, when Liam thinks there’s no more questions, Harry looks up with wide eyes and says, “Maybe it’d be best for her if she had the both of you?”

Liam swallows, damn the democracy or diplomacy of it all, and drops his shoulders on the way Harry flicks up a challenging eyebrow.

“After all,” Harry adds, dropping his eyes to Lily before lifting them again, “what happens when you graduate?”

Liam bites at his tongue, even with the peppermint and something sweeter underneath mocking him, and _glares_ at his shaking hands on the table. It’s enough of an answer, for both of them, and he thinks about all of those breathing techniques he learned one summer when training to be a lifeguard. He counts backwards and times the clatter of his heart and simulated drowning never taught him how to float when you’re neck-deep in the swell of a hurricane.

 

(*)

 

“Remind me again why I’m letting you do this?”

Louis shoots him an incredulous look from the couch, with Lily sat on one knee and his thumb typing off a quick message on his phone.

“Because you’re supporting my new experimental attempts at maturity?” Louis proposes and Liam immediately arches an eyebrow at him, stuffing a diaper bag full of essential things for Lily.

“Are we being honest?” Liam teases, shoving a few stuffed animals on top of the stacks of diapers, right next to the collection of DVD’s he knows Lily loves.

Louis flips him off and grins at Lily when she coos out something unintelligible.

“Because you need a bloody break from being part-time student, part-time father, part-time footy player, part-time douchebag?” Louis suggests with a careless shrug.

“That last one’s really not that time consuming,” Liam shoots back, searching through a pile of _Detective Comics_ for a teething ring and a pacifier.

Louis echoes out a groan and tosses his phone to readjust Lily in his lap. He fixes narrow eyes on Liam, teeth clenched, before he rasps out, “Because Harry wants to try this dating thing but doesn’t think I have the mental capacity – “

“Did he teach you that word?” Liam inquires with a raised brow.

Louis artfully offers him a middle finger and finishes, “ – to handle us on a serious level. What’s a night taking care of your best mate’s goddaughter with said Romeo gonna show him?”

“The reasons you’ll always need adult care?” Liam offers, taming his grin for the disappointed glare Louis gives him.

“Fuck off Payner,” he growls but there’s still something oddly fond in his tone, “It’s gonna show him how capable I am of handling – “

“Fondling,” Liam corrects with a laugh.

“ – Harry Styles, relationship or not,” Louis groans. He kisses a smile to Lily’s forehead and adds, “Plus you know I love a good dare.”

Liam settles down onto the couch next to Louis, shoving in close to tangle fingers into Louis’ thick hair while feeding Lily a few biscuits, sighing quietly. Louis’ warmth dulls the nerves he’s been avoiding and Lily’s absent smiles press something earnest, beautiful to his bones until he relaxes.

“Plus,” Louis starts, leaning in like he’s scared the world will hear them, “don’t you think you need some proper time to chat with Malik?”

Liam scrunches his brow, drags his fingers a little slower over Louis’ scalp until he mewls at the stillness. He thumbs away the loose fringe, smiles at the lack of product in Louis’ hair and rests in the distraction until Louis’ foot nudges him and impatient fingers press through the cotton of his Henley.

“Are you ever gonna tell him?” Louis wonders, heaving out a breath and nuzzling under Liam’s chin with his cheek pressed to Liam’s collarbone.

Liam nods, even if Louis can’t see, and shuts his eyes at the sound of Louis’ methodical breathing.

“The longer you wait,” Louis starts and Liam already knows the rest but he waits, waits until he can’t take the absence of Louis’ voice, “the harder it’s gonna be for you two to work through it. I mean, this is big.”

“Huge,” Liam groans.

“Like Harry’s dick,” Louis adds, smirking.

“Lou,” Liam hisses, scratching roughly at Louis’ scalp until he yelps and bites at the skin of Liam’s neck in revenge. “Not in front of the babe.”

“Please,” Louis laughs, tugging Lily up and over until she’s wedged between their hips. “The kid lives with you two. Surely the lack of actual sex happening in your lives has led to more than that one occasion where you – “

Liam exhales roughly, jostling Louis while petting Lily’s head. “We don’t discuss that.”

“Or revisit it either,” Louis notes, giggling.

Liam makes a face that’s hidden behind Louis’ hair and the _‘fuck off’_ in his throat lays dormant for just a little longer.

“Honestly,” Louis says, his voice serious and grave and nothing like the kid with the too loud tone, large eyes, and a constant need for coffee, “s’not such a bad thing for you two to, like, fancy each other. At least for a shag or summat. He’s not awful looking – “

 _He’s beautiful_ , Liam thinks and the shiver that runs over his skin feels colder than the below tolerable conditions outside.

“ – and I’m sure he wouldn’t be opposed to giving you a blowie, maybe bending over for your prick.”

Liam moans and Louis echoes it, a little more obscene and teasing until Liam punches his shoulder and reconsiders ever agreeing to let Louis watch Lily for a day.

 

(*)

 

Her lips are stained a sugary pink from the cotton candy and her wide eyes shine chestnut under a setting sun. Her skin is a soft caramel. She’s sixteen there.

 _Here_ – here she’s just a picture.

It’s one of those vintage Polaroid’s with the clean white border but the edges are crinkled from wear and he didn’t mean to find it. He didn’t mean to find it tucked into an old notebook with scribbled out song ideas and partial lyrics like choppy poetry. Just a bunch of strewn together words about love, her eyes, the relationship between the moon and the stars and _there she is_ –

Somewhere between his fingers and his heart.

His teeth tear at his bottom lip, curled up on the couch with the night stretched out like a comfortable winter blanket over London. The kitchen light shines a fuzzy gold into the living room, mixing with the cool minty blue of the television and the noise of slow moving traffic outside is only a little louder than his unstable heart. He absolutely freezes when Zayn slides down onto the couch with him. A pair of feet prop on the coffee table next to his and Zayn thumps his ankle with an ink-stained arm pulling across the width of his shoulders.

He ducks his chin and tries hard to remain stealthy about his movement as he scrubs his damp cheeks against the sleeve of his vintage Batman shirt and his nervous tongue slicks away the salty tears accumulating on his upper lip. He sniffles with his legs drawn up, eyelashes stuck together. He swears he can smell the mint from Zayn’s toothpaste, the acrylic from his paints, the artificial taste of the ocean from his body scrub, and it all feels almost like – it feels like _home_. Smeared colors are dried against long fingers and they press into the tense muscles of his shoulder until Liam sinks into him and exhales a shaky breath across his collar.

His fingers tighten and wrinkle the picture when Zayn leans in to steal it and he sputters a sigh when Zayn smiles victoriously, waving it in front of Liam’s shiny eyes. Rough knuckles nudge at his chin and he tilts his head up, begrudgingly, to kind eyes and a loose smile.

“I found an old Mickey Mouse jumper that Jade bought him, I dunno, like two Christmases ago in my shit,” Zayn says, still bending that smile while thumbing over the photo. “It’s an ugly sweater that’s a size too big, like. He let me borrow it last December when it was cold in Bradford. It still has cigarette burns on the cuff because the sleeves were too long, man. It stinks like his cheap cologne, too.”

Zayn laughs into his shoulder but his body trembles and the noise comes back wet like a sob. His nose presses to the tendons of Liam’s stretched neck, fingers picking at the jersey material of Liam’s footy shorts.

“It was quite weird how obsessed she was with Disney stuff,” Liam huffs, turning his head a little until he’s almost got a mouthful of hair.

“It was a bit odd,” Zayn agrees, his tone serious but Liam catches the tease in it. “A bit mad, y’know.”

Liam sighs out a giggle, shoves playful fingers into Zayn’s side until that tight, tight coil around his spine and the one clouding his lungs relaxes.

“I don’t miss her all of the time because Lily,” Liam pauses with his nose in Zayn’s soft hair, the product fading. “She reminds me of them but like a happy version, y’know? Like when they first met.”

“Because of us,” Zayn snickers, twisting his fingers into Liam’s shirt.

“Because of us,” Liam repeats and, no, he can’t help his smile or the pull of Zayn’s fingers or the way his own bury themselves in Zayn’s hair, tangling around the edges. Unconsciously, he tugs and Zayn moves strictly on the momentum towards him.

Gentle fingers, just shy of calloused, cup the muscles in the nape of his neck and press at his collarbone. Zayn’s thumb knocks his chin upward and his eye line catches the uncertainty at the corners of Zayn’s grin.

Liam presses their foreheads together, carding his fingers through thick hair for a few deep breaths.

“Can I kiss you?”

“You hate me, remember?” Zayn chuckles but he doesn’t pull away.

“I still do,” Liam grins, his thumb catching on the stubble over Zayn’s jaw, “but I think your best mate once promised this would be good for us.”

“My best mate was an idiot,” Zayn whispers, his smirk wide and cheeky.

“Yeah, bless him,” Liam mumbles, angling his head, “but he loved my best mate so fuck off.”

Liam catches the _‘you first’_ on Zayn’s tongue with his lips, closing that gap that feels like a galaxy and stretches like an ocean until their lips are shoved together and Zayn’s carefully opening his mouth with a sinful tongue.

They smile goofily into the kiss and relax their jaws and move with the current until Liam’s unsure of his place, unclear on where to put his hands but _Zayn_ , Zayn anchors him with chapped lips and calm hands until the waves in the pit of his stomach gentle out. It’s temperate for a few seconds before the kiss turns dirty, obscene with roaming teeth and feverish lips and tongues coaxing noises out only to rub them to the roof of a mouth. There’s a whine caught in his diaphragm and it only escapes when Zayn’s lips slip away to suck a pretty pink bruise just under his jaw and above his birthmark.

“Hey _sport_ ,” Zayn whispers with a grin and a tongue licking away Liam’s scowl and fingers stretching the fabric of his shirt until they fight to get it off.

“I hate you,” Liam laughs, tangling rough fingers in Zayn’s hair until their foreheads knock and their lips kiss away the wounded mewls with Liam’s hands steady on Zayn’s hips.

“I know,” Zayn smiles back, fluttering pretty eyelashes until Liam, he just can’t take it.

His muscles stretch, contort under tan skin and they twist around each other for more kisses, sharp nips that turn into smart blurs of licks and mouthed out vowels. They share control – and the same synchronized breathing, the only thing stabilizing Liam – and Liam shoves forward only to slip back onto the cushions with Zayn straddling him.

He’s got wrecked hair, eyes a flame gold in the dark with hints of flesh exposed every time Liam tangles his fingers in the cotton of his shirt and shiny sections of ink Liam can’t take his eyes away from. There’s a _hello can we keep going_ and _I’ve got a whole new world to show you_ behind those long, spidery eyelashes and Liam’s _helpless_ with a breathy laugh when Zayn rotates his hips filthily and parts his lips for a sweet, harmonic moan that chases Liam’s breath in the night.

“C’mere,” Liam heaves out, thumbing at Zayn’s sharp jaw and he’s so grateful for a kiss to disguise his _begging_ , the heat behind his cheeks. He sucks at a lethal tongue and parts his thighs for better leverage when he repeats an old workout routine that has his hips shoving up at Zayn’s arse without the use of his arms.

“Sick,” Zayn giggles, fingers scratching at Liam’s throat and palming the muscles of his chest.

“Shut it,” Liam hisses but it’s only to hide his smile, the flush running down his neck.

He finds strength in his hands, squeezing at Zayn’s hips until he complies by lifting up enough for Liam to drag down his trousers. He works them mid-thigh and they struggle over positioning until Zayn laughs into his mouth with a _‘rookie’_ over his tongue and jerks away long enough to strip off his jeans and pants, fumbling fingers over Liam’s crotch on the way up for the humiliating whimper Liam releases afterwards.

Liam settles against the cushions, pushes up on his elbows for another swelling kiss and he adores the way the scruff on Zayn’s mouth drags over his skin. A shaky hand pushes down the front of his shorts until his cock curves wet and throbbing over his belly and determined, resilient fingers curve around his wrists and trap them above his head.

“Be a good lad,” Zayn murmurs with their mouths still so close, a tongue licking lewdly across the rim, “and _open up_.”

Liam shivers, fights back with little effort before grinning and tilting his chin up. He licks away the shyness – though it still sits heavy like a pile of bricks in his chest because he’s never done _this_ , not like this, not with someone so beautiful and hazardous at once – for a smile made just for Zayn.

Zayn smirks back, drags his mouth slowly over Liam’s neck until the stubble burns and his tongue soothes and Liam wants to see the marks, the bruises but it’s too dark and Zayn’s too far in his vision.

He keeps Liam’s wrists pinned down and there’s a blurry outline of a cock in his eye line but he’s too busy watching Zayn, the way his eyes dilate and the awe behind them when he shifts upward just before spare fingers guide his dick to Liam’s shiny lips.

Liam takes in a sharp breath – and the head of Zayn’s cock – with enthusiasm lining his lungs. His tongue moves on instinct, eyes shutting on the cool moan that slides past Zayn’s lips when Liam mouths the head. He fits the tip of his tongue into the slit for the nectary, almost bitter taste of precome and his reflexes fight against Zayn’s fingers until he calms his rushing blood enough to suck leisurely around the tip. His tongue flicks and coats and plays on the underside while Zayn’s cautious hips lift and lower just the head from Liam’s mouth. The muscles in his arms jump, twitch from the strain but Zayn keeps control, keeps rocking slowly until Liam angles his neck and takes him a little deeper.

An unsteady hand frees itself to palm the small of Zayn’s back, working over the tense muscles while his lips chase the sting of his throat. It’s an uncomfortable fit for a few seconds but Liam shifts his shoulder blades and arches his back enough to accommodate the pressure, swallowing around the head and leveraging his tongue down the thick vein on the underside.

“A little more, babe,” Zayn groans, pressing his knees into the cushions and caging Liam in and he’s lost on the last word, the way it sparks a wildfire through his blood.

He almost, almost gags when Zayn slips a little but makes up for it with a quick tongue and earnest sucking until Zayn’s shaken from his daze. He pinches Zayn’s hip like _‘okay’_ and _‘please, more’_ and blinks up through bleary eyes for Zayn. His lips stretch widely, molding his smile and Zayn shoots him a crooked smirk and an uneasy nod before he slides back down the length of Liam’s tongue.

They find a rhythm, Liam running soothing fingers up Zayn’s thigh rather than trying to guide him, and he’s shamelessly proud when the head coaxes his throat open and he swallows around the base. There’s a wet feeling coating the back of his mouth but he focuses on keeping Zayn deep, tricking his gag reflex and rubbing smug fingers between Zayn’s thighs when he whines out a ‘ _how the fuck are you so – ‘_ that Liam swims in.

Zayn pulls out long enough for Liam to catch his breath, lips shiny with precome and saliva, trembling fingers grabbing Zayn’s hips when he’s gone for too long.

“You like this?” Zayn wonders, still holding down one of Liam’s wrist. He gazes over his shoulder before Liam can nod his approval, watching the way Liam gradually works his cock, thumbing back the foreskin.

Zayn mewls, keens with his teeth biting down on his bottom lip and his hips shuffling urgently forward to shove his cock back between those grinning lips. There’s no hesitation in the way he gyrates his hips this time, fucking Liam’s mouth until Liam’s shaking and desperate for it.

“Such a good little – “

Liam’s moan drowns out the last few words but he doesn’t miss when Zayn curves his spine enough to whisper a _‘so good for me, daddy’_ that has Liam hitching over every other breath for too long.

Zayn loses harmonization and Liam has to slow his fingers to stop his own orgasm when the boy above him pushes down his throat. He swallows, closes his eyes on the tears that spill out of the corners and hums the opening bars of a melody he remembers fondly, taking it deep breaths through his nose.

“Liam, babe, you’re just – “ Zayn gasps, stutters out until his cock slides slickly over Liam’s swollen lips, the soft of his cheek. He’s got squeezed eyes, fingers pinching bruises into Liam’s wrist and Liam wants to press _‘don’t be so scared of the things you love’_ to the ruby lips and wings stained to the center of his heaving chest.

Zayn’s fingers tug through his hair, angling his chin upward for the slow drag of his dick before they cup his jaw and thumb a smear of precome like gloss over his mouth.

“Where do you want me to,” Zayn pauses at the small licks Liam fixes to the head of his cock. He giggles, pulls away enough that Liam whines before finishing, “Where can I come babe?”

Liam gasps a breath, still floating on the _‘I never could see the waves that rolled you under’_ before he blinks large eyes at Zayn.

“My mouth,” Liam stammers, working up the pace of his cock again, “down my throat.”

Zayn groans, nods before brushing his cock over Liam’s parted lips again. He’s shifting down, forward, when Liam adds, “but next time, you can come on my face, if y’want?”

There’s a mumbled _‘next time I want you to hold me down and fuck me raw, daddy’_ that sounds rough, errant but it’s sweet falling from those sugary pink lips, the ones hiding a smile and white teeth and a nervous tongue.

Liam sighs something frantic and nods back before opening his mouth for Zayn’s dick. And it only takes a few quick thrusts – with sweat shining over Zayn’s skin and muscles straining under the effort and Liam’s name rolling off Zayn’s tongue like a foreign language – before Zayn’s freezing above him, knees bracketing Liam’s head and a head of his cock on the edge of Liam’s tongue. He seizes up and chokes off a whimper and Liam swallows the bitter taste with a need behind his teeth.

Zayn pulses in Liam’s mouth, freeing his wrist to tangle their fingers together for an anchor and Liam willingly gives it to him. He curls fingers into Zayn’s hair immediately, tugs him down when Zayn slips out and kisses the taste into Zayn’s mouth until Zayn’s soft and lucid again.

His wrist flicks in that familiar pattern to finish himself off but Zayn shoves his hand away, grins against his mouth and eases back. There’s intent in his eyes that Liam can’t quite understand but they shine and illuminate in the dark and distract Liam enough that he doesn’t notice hips lifting and settling back until the head of his cock slips past the ring, into the stretching muscle so fluently.

Liam shivers, shakes against the cushions and quick hands grab Zayn’s waist to steady him but Zayn doesn’t need it. He rotates just a little, never slides further down with just the head stretching him and grins like _this is just a start babe I can give you more later_ is on his tongue.

“How are you – “

Zayn smiles, lifts up until the head pops lewdly out before shuffling back and taking him back in with a stable hand.

“Thought about you in the shower this morning,” Zayn confesses, wincing a little at the stretch but his jaw is so vulnerable, the twist of his lips, the erratic breathing from his post-orgasmic high. “Every morning, actually. But this morning, I worked myself open thinking about what this would be like. I s’ppose I couldn’t help it much. Wanting to know if you’d, like, actually do _this_ to me.”

“This?”

“Fuck me,” Zayn says with a serious face, without the hesitation and nerves Liam’s sure comes attached to anyone else. “If you’d be willing – “

“I am,” Liam gasps, rocking his hips upward but Zayn squeezes around him and almost pushes him out. The tension in his thighs and the determination between his teeth keeps him in control and Liam lies restlessly as Zayn flutters his hole around the head.

“Another time, babe,” he hisses, fists pressed to Liam’s sweaty chest. He rocks a little slower, grins at the way Liam’s cock expands. “Right now, I just want you to think about it, y’know. Just a little taste – “

“Fuck you Malik,” Liam snaps but he grips Zayn’s hips and lets him find his own rhythm that teases, sends a throb down the shaft.

“S’right,” Zayn laughs, spine curving when he slides down midway. “Want that and _you_. When you’re ready.”

“Hate you,” Liam mumbles but it sounds so different, like two other words he won’t dare say and it’s so intense, the way Zayn’s body takes him apart piece by piece.

“Yeah,” Zayn stammers, his cock fattening up again and the muscles in his stomach tensing. “Me too.”

Liam reaches up to tangle his fingers in Zayn’s mussed hair, keeps his other hand on the dip in Zayn’s back and his thumb eases down just a little to feel the stretched rim, the way the leaking head fits, and the moan they share echoes into London streets.

He’s certain he hears Zayn whisper _‘don’t think too deep in’_ but it comes out like ocean waves in the morning, just a distant noise under his own heavy breathing and short jabs of his hips and he’s only slightly embarrassed when he comes slipping out of Zayn’s hole because Zayn’s so needy for it, lining him back up and resting his hole around the head until they can’t function without the connection.

He marks Zayn’s back with fingertip-shaped bruises and frees his other fingers to stroke the shaft and Zayn whimpers above him with his cock smearing precome over Liam’s belly before Liam pulls out. It’s a shock – Zayn’s blown eyes, his own expanded chest, the silent words they _can’t_ say – a few seconds before he thumbs the head and comes wetly over Zayn’s hole. He trembles beneath him, thrusting into his own palm and slicking Zayn and they’re both breathless when he scurries up to kiss at Zayn’s lips and shove the head back into Zayn, the last of his come leaking out and down the back of Zayn’s thigh.

They cuddle around each other afterwards, with Zayn’s taste still slick on Liam’s tongue and sweat preventing their hands from sticking and fingers buried in each other’s hair. Zayn laughs shaky breaths to the underside of Liam’s jaw and he presses a few quiet kisses over Zayn’s eyelids until the world stops whirling so fast around them. They shuffle their feet together, hiding in the hollows of their bodies from the cold and Liam can’t get rid of the smile on his lips so he presses it to Zayn’s temple until the boy next to him stops swaying in the madness.

“Still hate me?” Zayn wonders when they’re too quiet and rain falls lightly outside.

Liam nods, grinning. “Maybe a _little_ less.”

“A lot less,” Zayn teases, tickling fingers over the hair on Liam’s chest, down over his still taut stomach muscles.

Liam learns the shape of all of his tattoos and the soft skin of his shoulder before he teaches his tongue the feel of Zayn’s collarbone.

“Your best mate was right,” he whispers into Zayn’s hair and his heart skips a beat at the beautiful smile Zayn presents when he tilts his head back.

“About what?”

“Your _horrible_ at this,” Liam teases, kissing away the frown that takes over Zayn’s lips. “And I deserve better.”

Zayn fights dirty, bites another mark to the side of Liam’s neck but refuses to argue otherwise and Liam thinks it’s the closest thing to tolerable he’s seen from Zayn –

Other than the quiet side of his heart and the careful hands when he holds Lily and that sleepy, morning smile he only lets Liam see even when he thinks he’s hiding it behind his coffee mug.

 

(*)

 

He thinks, in retrospect, timing was probably never one of his strongest features.

No, he thinks confessions and admitting a secret in the middle of December, towards the end of exams and on a cold, cold morning between warm sheets and lazy kisses shared with Zayn, was most likely the daftest idea he’s had in years.

And now, with Zayn pacing back and forth out of arms’ reach and the linen getting colder and his bare chest caving in, he wishes Louis’ words weren’t so echoing and strong in his mind. He wishes he could untangle his fingers from the sheets to reach out for Zayn’s wrist or to kiss a comforting lie to his shoulder or to shake him because _‘for fuck’s sake, Zayn, this is not how adults deal with situations’_ but he chooses to stay quiet, bundled under the wreckage of their night before and with Lily still sleeping away in the spare bedroom because it’s the only thing he knows to do.

Zayn tangles unsteady fingers in the mayhem of dark hair and Liam aches with the memories of twisting his own fingers to the roots with his mouth lining Zayn’s jaw and their hips erratic with their motions and Zayn’s laughter in his ear as Liam recited all of his favorite bits from the new Spider-Man trailer with Zayn’s come streaked over his chest. The footfalls from his bare feet echo over the quiet city outside and the line of his spine looks vulnerable but tense when his back is all Liam sees.

“We don’t have to chat about it now, I just thought you should know,” Liam says, foolishly because Zayn turns on his heels and there’s a new edge to his face that’s far from friendly or welcoming.

“How could we not,” Zayn hisses, his own chest rising and falling a little hastier than Liam’s.

Liam’s shoulders drop and he curls up a little until he’s pressed to the headboard with his chin on his knees.

“I haven’t quite decided – “

“But you _have_ ,” Zayn argues, straining the volume of his voice for Lily, not Liam. “You wouldn’t have bothered to tell me or even considered waiting this long had you not, mate.”

Liam part his lips, something awful and cold shifting beneath his skin because it seems almost instantaneous – the way _‘mate’_ replaces _‘babe’_ and the soft jaw turns tense and foreign and the warm eyes grow distant. He looks away, biting at his lip and frustration casts a shadow down his arms.

“It’s an opportunity,” Liam starts but Zayn sighs, hard.

“It’s you leaving,” he interrupts.

“Not by myself,” Liam snaps, pulling at the sheets and squaring his shoulders.

“S’right, it’s not, is it?” Zayn challenges, still too far but the heated words crowd Liam into a small space. “You want to take Lily with you? Or were you planning on leaving her behind with me? Were you just playing the part long enough to figure out that we’re not them, _sport_. We’re not Jade and Ant. We’re not fucking _‘happily ever after.’_ ”

“No we’re not,” Liam shouts back, fisting a pillow. He throws it to a wall, the soft thud a distant sound compared to the clatter in his chest. His blood runs too hot and his skin crawls at the condescending glare Zayn shoots him.

“I’m still young, y’know, and – “

“And we should’ve thought of that before we decided to pretend we could be her parents,” Zayn says and Liam notices it immediately – the hurt, the lowered voice, the way it’s a whimper instead of a riot.

He leans forward, chest to knees, and sighs with his chin lowered. “I was never pretending, Zee.”

Zayn scoffs, drags his feet on the hardwood before turning away. “What do you expect of me?”

 _Nothing_ , Liam thinks but it’s untrue, it’s unfair and it tastes like acid on his tongue. He curves his fingers around another pillow, wishing for a wiry frame and strong muscles under tight skin and sharp stubble that leaves him raw.

“I don’t know,” he whispers, catching the weak tone of his voice. He clears his throat to add, “But it’s a chance for me. To play football in the States would really open doors for me. They have great schooling out there and I could finish my degree, start up a life, and – “

“Forget Lil and I were ever here,” Zayn sighs with lowered shoulders, a tight grip on his spine, clenched fists. “Forget the idea of adopting her or raising her or – “

Liam tightens his jaw and the fire in his marrow thrums wildly. “I wouldn’t do that to her. Or you.”

Zayn snorts, shaking his head. “You can’t be everything, Payne. You can’t be a football star in the States and a father in London and a – “

“A what?” Liam hisses, narrowing his eyes at Zayn’s back.

Zayn shudders a breath and tips his head back with a mocking laugh that stains rage into Liam’s veins.

“A nothing,” Zayn exhales, turning with flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, and a spirit broken before it ever healed. “We hate each other, remember? We were just filling in until the agencies could find something better for that little girl. We’re too young and we both know it.”

Liam shudders, tries his best to hide it from Zayn because he’s stronger than that.

“It wouldn’t be until after next term, after I graduate,” Liam offers and it sounds like a pitch but he hopes for something more. “Training camps don’t start until the summer months and they’ve been scouting since last season. I really think it’d be fantastic.”

Zayn’s lips shift crookedly, turning his eyes downward to blink away the shine from them. He scuffs a heel on the floor and sighs roughly, his voice come out harsh like it does after he’s been chain-smoking between classes.

“Sounds perfect,” he mutters, “for you.”

Liam licks at his dry lips, shoves out of the bed and strides the distance separating them without a thought. His fingers burn for a touch but his mind whirls out of control and he wants to punch Zayn. He wants to scream _‘fuck off’_ and shove him back to that stupid couch, to his own little world, and away from this clenched heart in his chest.

“You haven’t even considered coming with me, have you?”

Zayn drops his eyes, shuffles bare feet over the cold floor until his chest tightens. “I can’t just leave here. Fuck, Liam, I deferred a few courses and changed my schedule and screwed over _two_ chances at an internship just to be here for her.”

“For her,” Liam repeats, waits for the attached _‘for you too’_ that never comes and it hits him –

 _Selfish_.

It’s all Zayn’s ever been, right? A willing victim. Just some bloke who does things for others but not without a reminder. Not without an _‘I told you so’_ when it all fails and this, this is a big _‘I fucking told you so’_ that’s unsaid but hidden between his eyelashes.

“I was gonna start a career – “

The laugh that slips past Liam’s lips is unintentional but honest. He shoves trembling, frustrated fingers through his thick hair and spins on his toes to walk away. He kicks softly at a wall and shuts his eyes until a blur of supernova-like colors appears and Zayn’s harsh breathing in the background sounds nothing like the night before with Liam’s lips on his neck and their fingers twined.

“Malik, you’re mad. You’re manic,” he sighs with all of the oxygen he can’t swallow. “You’ve lived your life pretending for everyone else, acting out and walking the line. You can’t decide on a core study and you can’t decide on a relationship and you refuse to make a decision when it comes to Lily. You just – you don’t want pity but you won’t let the world in enough to understand.”

He turns on the sharp inhale that shakes Zayn’s body, at the bottom lip bitten raw and the cold skin and hints of a wounded boy behind the armor. He holds onto the _‘and you won’t let me close enough to fix it’_ long enough for Zayn to grab a jumper from the end of the bed and, unconsciously, slip into a pair of Liam’s jeans.

Zayn nods at him with the sleeves overwhelming his knuckles and the material swallowing up his body, hiding all of the love bites from two nights ago, and moves towards the door.

“You’re right,” Zayn frowns, pushing thick fringe from his eyes. “But ‘m not the one ditching off on one dream to try and live another, mate.”

Liam watches him with wide eyes, curls his fingers to his side when Zayn slowly draws open the door, and waits until his heart stops rattling to squeak out a noise that stops Zayn, halfway out – metaphorically and literally – of the door.

“At least consider coming with me, okay? You and her,” he asks, no, _begs_ even if he won’t admit that to anyone, not even Zayn, “please.”

Zayn gives him a half-smile over his shoulder but his eyes – no longer that glow in the dark fondness that Liam spent half of his nights thinking about – speak another language. He nods, once, for Liam before shouldering out of the door and the silence that remains swallows Liam up just like that stupid Mickey Mouse jumper.

 

(*)

 

It takes them a week and a few too many frequent visits from the boys – _‘you’re idiots and not talking makes Niall sad’_ Louis tells them on a Wednesday, sat around the living room with a marathon of _the Walking Dead_ and boxes of pizza and half-finished beers with Harry in his lap and Niall nodding to his left, _‘and I won’t have any of this so if you’re quite finished acting like douchebags, Uncle Lou would like you two to make up so his_ boyfriend _will start shagging him again instead of worrying about your non-relationship.’_ – but they find a rhythm to their routine again –

Which includes a breakfast of warm toast and scrambled eggs on Thursday, a snow fight with Lily on Friday, Zayn helping him through his final term paper on Saturday, and twisting around the couch with Lily between them and their fingers coiled behind her back on Sunday.

And Liam’s a little less frantic about his cold sheets or the pressure of the couch on Zayn’s spine or the way Lily sneaks into his room, with Zayn holding her hand, after a massive nightmare and a glass of warm milk to calm her.

He’s at the kitchen table with a cup of tea calming most of his nerves and studying the tiny, lit fireball of a sun cascading tangerine across the early London skyline when Zayn walks softly into view with a sheepish grin and fingers twisting into his bed hair. They share smiles and small nods like _good morning_ – and an _I’ve missed you_ is attached to Liam’s, even if he won’t say it aloud – and Liam kicks out the empty chair opposite of him without Zayn having to ask for permission.

He sips at his tea, slowly, while Zayn fumbles into the chair and drops heavy elbows on the table with a quiet sigh.

“Has she worn you out, mate?” he asks, chasing his smile with hot liquid and flushing cheeks.

“I’ve got better stamina than that,” Zayn snorts, his eyes still heavy with sleep but there’s something alert in his grin, “unlike _you_ Bucky Barnes.”

Liam rolls his eyes instantly but declines swallowing back the laugh that tickles his lips, scrunches his nose with the sound. He sniffs at Zayn and admires – the soft texture of his skin, the embedded hue, the small freckles over his shoulder, the incoming stubble even though he shaved the morning before, the sharp edge of his cheeks – openly the way Zayn looks, slumped in his chair with a laziness Liam can’t quite define.

“She’s an animal in the mornings,” Liam laughs, keeping the sound low.

Zayn nods, bites at his lip. “She’s right knackered, though. Drooling on your voice pillow.”

Liam makes a mock offended noise and pushes a ceramic Batman mug at Zayn, the steam billowing and the scent of posh Brazilian beans opens Liam’s senses.

“Your coffee will go cold,” Liam warns, feigning a carelessness that he can’t own with Zayn beaming at him like Liam shouldn’t have done it but he accepts anyway.

He distracts himself with the dusting of snow falling from the sky, the way London is already a thick afghan of ivory from the previous storm of flurries and it hits him. They’re almost a week from Christmas and days removed from exams and he hasn’t thought of anything but _these two_ for weeks now.

“I haven’t quite figured out the hols yet,” Liam admits after Zayn takes his first sip of coffee, suddenly a lot more relaxed and buoyant. He clears his throat, circling fingers around his own cup before looking up. “Lou invited me on a ski trip with his mates from Doncaster. A few of the lads from around campus are meeting up with him too.”

Zayn nods slowly, swallowing down more coffee. He pulls a cigarette out of nowhere, fixing it behind his ear. “Was thinking of going home to Bradford? Me sisters have been begging me to come home but it’s usually a bit mad around there during the holidays. Loads of family, y’know.”

Liam grins while taking another sip. “But they’d love to see you.”

“Probably,” Zayn says with a cheeky laugh and his bare foot brushing Liam’s under the table. “My abbu will be away for business though.”

“Mine too,” Liam sighs, dropping his eyes. He breathes in the heady nectar from the tea, the taste a bit dull against the guilt in his throat. “And then there’s Lily.”

Zayn hums his agreement, toes wiggling over Liam’s ankle.

“Don’t know if the agencies would exactly approve of one of us taking her away for the holiday break,” Liam says, lips turning crooked when he looks up through his lashes.

Zayn leans over his mug, putting his weight against his elbows while taking a few more sips to hide his words.

“You can,” Zayn offers, quickly, but there’s something uncertain and restrained in his throat. He perches a smile on his lips and nudges Liam’s ankle before adding, “I’m sure your sisters would love to see her. ‘s probably nice in Wolverhampton ‘round this time, too, right? Massive amounts of snow for her to play in.”

Liam nods, his expression solemn. He giggles to avoid the wake of goosebumps that travel up his leg when the heat of Zayn’s foot leaves.

“She’d be a right fan of your mum’s cooking though,” he counters like it’s a contest and they trade the positives to silence all of the hesitation they’re hiding poorly behind their smiles.

Something serious passes over Zayn’s face, grave, a realization before he says, “I don’t want to be away from our fam – “

Liam bites at his smile and Zayn breathes out a nervous laugh to disguise his cheeks but Liam catches it before he can. It’s honest and sincere and Liam thinks in poetry for just a second, for a small moment to capture the line of Zayn’s face and the shyness behind those long eyelashes.

“I don’t want to be away from Lily either,” Zayn admits, a little quieter with his chin tucked.

Liam nods, sneaks a few fingers across the table to brush over the knuckles Zayn has on his mug. He only pulls away when Zayn goes to lift his coffee but Zayn’s spare fingers catch his on the retreat and words feel so unnecessary while they breathe and stare and let the city behind them disappear in the flood of snow.

“We could invite our mums up,” Liam suggests before Zayn can turn away and the light of a still rising sun catches the heart of Zayn’s grin. “Just a few days before the holiday, yeah? Just a piece of home.”

“Home,” Zayn repeats, nodding. He’s got big eyes and an even bigger smile and their fingers keep scratching out _‘this is home’_ in intermediate frequencies that Liam doesn’t immediately understand but he’s so willing to.

Fuck – he’s so ready to.

 

(*)

 

There’s a kind of toxic nervous feeling that seeps into his blood, soaks his organs, disorganizes his nerve functions at the thought of their little flat – and it’s so _theirs_ now with Zayn’s soiled coffee mug next to Liam’s stack of anatomy books in the kitchen and his _Justice League_ comics bookmarking the unfinished copy of _House of M_ that Zayn left on the coffee table and Lily’s toys stacked in a neat row next to Zayn’s art supplies and hair product, baby shampoo, and deodorant taking up most of the space on the bathroom counter with Zayn’s dirty socks between his sheets and empty pizza boxes hidden underneath the couch Zayn sleeps on whenever Liam’s not home – being filled with Christmas decorations and their mums but it all seems to dissipate the moment Zayn answers the door with a huge smile and a warm hug for Liam’s mum.

Their flat is crowded with gifts they begged their mums not to buy and a poorly Christmas tree that’s only half-decorated in a corner of the living room and a spare mattress from Louis’ for the extra sleeping space. Zayn’s shoved most of his things into a corner of Liam’s – _almost their_ – bedroom and Tricia refuses to sleep in any other room than Lily’s for the proximity and the _‘granddaughter I wish I had, Zayn, I swear she’s too adorable._ ’ There’s a constant aroma of home cooking provided by Tricia and baked goods by Karen – because Liam’s mum is dreadful at a stove but something like a David Copperfield when it comes to batters and the oven – and Liam spends most of the days watching both of them coddle Lily until she’s right spoiled.

And on their last night, after countless shopping trips through the crowded London streets and quiet dinners and little looks from both of them that Liam can’t define and a _‘we all must get together again, soon, for Zee’s birthday’_ that Tricia promises, with Karen agreeing in laughter, Liam thinks he gets it.

He thinks he gets the way his mum swoons over Zayn at every moment and the way Tricia keeps bringing up Ant like _she’s_ the one who lost a son and why Zayn keeps hiding his face when his mum shows off baby pictures or the way Zayn curls around him in bed, even if they start the night on opposite ends of the mattress.

He thinks he understands why his mum squeezes him tight whenever Zayn goes to pick up Lily, swaying with Tricia next to him and Lily laughing into his ear.

But he doesn’t say it, not in the dark of his bedroom or in the heavy snow they kick through because Tricia needs more cooking supplies or because Karen is craving those fancy dumplings from the corner takeaway restaurant. He refuses to say it when Zayn hip-checks him in the morning, when the world is still quiet and it’s just them. Or when Louis calls, pissed off vodka and slurring on about almost saying those three words to Harry. Or when Niall texts him about missing the three of them.

And now, with everything stretched around him like brand new armor – he doesn’t say it.

“Do you know how gangsta you are?” Zayn calls from the couch, grinning at Tricia while she adds a few more spices to her cooking. “Like, mum, seriously. Whatever it is, it smells brilliant.”

“The kids say I’m a smart cook and my food is quite feisty. I think it’s good to keep up with what they’re saying,” Tricia laughs, tearing in fresh herbs from a local farmer’s market before stealing a wooden spoon to stir it all. “Waliyha says I’m right manic but I think Safaa knows I’m bloody fantastic.”

Zayn groans with a giggle, tickling fingers over Lily’s belly until she joins him.

“Waliyha’s probably right,” he teases while Karen sits next to him, tuning her acoustic guitar and Liam hides his embarrassingly pink cheeks from view behind a cookbook.

“Oh shut it, you,” she giggles, knocking her hips to Liam’s to stir him from his obviously not so stealthy looks he keeps shooting in Zayn’s direction.

“Your cooking is brilliant,” he tells her, rubbing at the nape of his neck for the shear shyness he’s unable to disguise.

“Not too spicy?” she wonders, flicking a few more flakes of red pepper into the sauce. “Zayn says that you – “

“ _Mum_ ,” Zayn whines like he’s horrified.

Tricia giggles into her hand and looks away, winking over her shoulder at Zayn. “I’m just making sure, sunshine.”

Zayn’s shameful groan is muted by a thick throw pillow and Liam bites at his lip to dim some of his playful smile. He can’t focus on much else, not with Zayn smiling so damn hard from the couch that his eyes bunch up and his cheeks turn another color and his lips stretch wider than they do around Liam’s cock. Instead, he listens as his mum teaches Zayn all of the important chords on a guitar, plucks away a familiar melody until the words stitch together in his head and she lets Zayn try a few notes while Lily pulls at the unused strings to create a song of her own.

He presses into the cupboards while Tricia hums along and adds varied ingredients that he’s never heard of but is willing to try just to see how similar her smile is to Zayn’s. He bites at his lips and mouths along to the _‘sweet wonderful you, you make me happy with the things you do’_ Karen sings, a little out of tune. He thinks of Wolverhampton and his sisters and his dad building snowmen in their front yard and the way his mum prefers Fleetwood Mac to Frank Sinatra at this time of year.

Zayn’s in the middle of _‘but to believe in miracles, but I have a feeling it’s time to try’_ when Karen barks out a laugh at Lily’s wobbly notes. She crawls into Karen’s lap for messy kisses and Tricia sighs out something happy, affectionate from the other end of the kitchen.

“Oh, Liam, love, Zayn was telling me all about his mate Harry,” Karen starts and Liam can already see the tint high on Zayn’s cheeks, the way he’s trying to find all of the right chords on the guitar rather than commenting, “and he says he’s absolutely wonderful at getting some ‘ _herbal remedy’_ for us. We should ring him up.”

“Mummy,” Liam shrieks, the sound mortifying him, even with Karen’s sweet giggles and Zayn’s wild grin. “Malik, you’re horrible and how could you – “

“I’ve got a tenner,” Tricia announces, waving it around until Zayn’s missing half of the notes and balking at her. “Oh quit it, sunshine. It’s the holidays and we all deserve to have a little fun.”

“Absolutely,” Karen agrees with a nod. “Tricia, love, our boys know nothing.”

“Obviously,” Tricia remarks, nudging Liam with the clean end of her spoon, “or they would’ve figured a few things about each other out by now.”

Zayn raises his brow and Liam swallows slowly as Karen grins. “I suppose that’s another thing they have in common.”

Liam doesn’t try to decipher their looks or interpret their words, not when Zayn’s hunched over the guitar still trying to learn all of the right strings and shyly looking up through his eyelashes towards Liam like there’s a secret all of them are not sharing. It churns something awful in his stomach until the _‘you make loving fun’_ slips past Zayn’s lips and the calm timbre of his voice settles everything inside of Liam –

And he notes, to himself, that it’s never done that before and maybe he’s on his own artificial high because he wants more of it.

 

(*)

 

He’s sitting on the stairs outside of their flat with his knees pulled to his chest and a snapback covering his hair when Tricia finds him. She smiles down at him, soft and genuine, before pushing a cup of cinnamon-hinted chai tea in his direction and he reaches out a hand to help her sit next to him. She nudges him with a hip, smiles down into her tea with her auburn hair tucked into a messy bun, and hums off the remaining bars of the last song he can remember Karen singing to Lily in the faded off light of the living room.

“Ant was such a wonderful kid,” she starts, still looking down into the milky swirl of her tea. The corners of her mouth shift downward, only a little, before she clears her throat. “Like a son of my own, he was. Sort of sweet but such a troublemaker. And Zayn was _nothing_ like him, honestly. He was shy and stayed to himself and Ant was a firecracker.”

Liam grins, sips slowly at the scalding tea until the taste burns off the thoughts in his head – and each one of them is of _Zayn, Zayn, Zayn_. He leans against the banister, flashes her a smile and he’s defenseless at the thoughts of Jade daydreaming about Ant, the way her cheeks flushed and her eyes would shine like low-hanging stars.

“I miss him,” Tricia sighs, shoving sections of hair from her face. She focuses on the wall behind Liam and smirks. “Your mum misses Jade, too. We sat around chatting about that the other morning while you two thought we were sleeping.”

She winks at him and Liam freezes at the thought – long, unintentional kisses that turned rough, _bruising_ while Liam gave Zayn a handjob between the sheets and said nothing of it when Zayn stumbled off to the shower – and swallows a long, hot gulp of tea to shake off the nerves.

She wriggles a few fingers around his free wrist, squeezing lightly and that smile on her lips grows. Her face glows under the poor lighting and he can pick out the wrinkles, the crow’s feet, the aged features of her face but there’s still such a youth about her – like his own mum.

“That little girl is something special,” she whispers, tilting her head, “and I can’t help but love her. Like you do, I suspect. Like my sunshine does as well.”

Liam nods slowly because none of the words in his head feel accurate enough and his tongue isn’t strong enough to handle the weight of something else.

She giggles and tightens her fingers until the skin beneath turns pale. “My sunshine isn’t great with things like this but he’s fantastic with kids. And you two – you’re great together.”

“We – “

She waves a dismissive hand at him with a laugh, nudging their knees together.

“He’s already told me,” she sighs but the sound is far from displeased. She merely smiles harder and Liam thinks it’s one of the many, many things he loves about her already.

“Like I said,” she hums, sipping quietly, “he’s not very good at things like this. But I think that’s something you already know.”

Liam snorts, ducks his head and swallows the rest of his tea while she squirms with laughter. She presses her head into his shoulder and his arm automatically curls around her back for support and the way they fit feels so much like an _interlude_ rather than a _beginning_.

Zayn clears his throat behind them with Lily perched on his hip and Karen watching from the doorway with that dazed smile he remembers her having after a good laugh or that one time she got high before a Fleetwood Mac reunion tour. He’s got a raised brow and twitching fingers holding Lily up, lips carefully shaping into an awkward grin.

“Should I be concerned that you’re sat with my mum chatting?” he asks, half of his syllables choked by the nervous pull of his voice.

Liam laughs into Tricia’s hair and she squeezes his wrist one more time before turning. He helps her up, dusts himself off before leaning against a wall with Tricia hurriedly moving towards Lily. She steals her away with a giggle and a quick kiss to Zayn’s cheek, shoving at his shoulder.

“Don’t be silly, sunshine,” she teases, smacking his hip. “A mother deserves to have her own secrets.”

Zayn arches a curious eyebrow and Liam ducks his head, palming the nape of his neck with shame.

“Baba.”

Liam lifts his head quickly and he drowns in the sea of thoughts that overtake him and he bites down hard on his bottom lip when he looks at the smile on Lily’s face, her arms outstretched and tiny fingers wriggling at him like _c’mere, I’m talking to you_. And that feeling in his throat, saccharine and overwhelming sinks all the way down to his stomach and his knees almost give out but the wall is still supporting him.

Karen leans further into the hallway with a gasp and Tricia grins against Lily’s cheek and _Zayn_ –

He’s a little dazed but still so much of an anchor with his strong shoulders and contemplative eyes and that echo of calm that he’s always been, even when his best mate died and his feet couldn’t fill Ant’s shoes and right after Liam told him about playing football in the States.

“Baba,” Lily repeats, a little more urgent with a sugary smile that siphons the breath from Liam’s lungs.

He can’t move, not with these unsteady feet and his heart racing so loudly but Zayn does. He inches in, presses a kiss to the top of Lily’s head and provides that comfort that Liam wants to.

“Is that her first word?” Karen asks to shatter some of the silence, Lily giggling with delight in the background when Zayn strings a few fingers through her hair.

“No but – “

“Her first word was _cake_ ,” Zayn confesses, still completely unaffected but there’s something breaking right along the seams. “We blame Harry for that.”

Karen snickers and Tricia eyes Liam like she can read his thoughts, like she can see the burning blood shifting mercilessly through his veins.

“Baba,” Lily coos and Liam shakes his head quickly.

“ _Leeyum_ , Lil. I’m Liam,” he says instantly with a shaky voice.

“No,” Zayn corrects immediately, dragging the edge of his stubble over her forehead. “S’right, Lil. That’s _baba._ He’s your – it’s baba.”

Liam blinks at Zayn, catches the grin Tricia ducks behind Lily’s head and he knows he’s a heartbeat away from shattering. He’s numb and so alive all at once. He’s rubbing idly at the four chevrons on his arm and thumbing at the first one because, on the inside, _he knows_ who that one is for now. He knows and Zayn grins at him while Tricia quietly ushers Lily back into the flat with Karen in tow, their childish giggles echoing in the hall long after they leave.

Zayn corners him against the wall and Liam twists desperate fingers into his shirt until their foreheads are pressed together and they wait. They wait out the nervous energy scratching at Liam’s skin and the twist of Zayn’s lips when he bites down on them and their feet shuffle into the same space, their hips shoved together and the world slows down just enough for Liam to find his bearings. And then, when his heart stops knocking roughly at his chest, Zayn smiles against his mouth and doesn’t kiss him, not when Liam turns needy and not when they’re sharing the same breaths. He merely smirks and their noses brush until their roaming fingers still on their favorite spots – the hollow of Zayn’s collarbone, the crook of Liam’s elbow, the width of Liam’s hip, and the dip in Zayn’s spine.

“I’ve spent the better part of four years studying _literature_ and I can’t find the words to tell you what I’m thinking, babe,” Zayn confesses in hushed tones, still grinning against Liam’s mouth.

“Try,” Liam dares, smiling back.

“S’cool,” Zayn laughs, thumbing the lower muscles of Liam’s biceps. “I’m quite happy.”

Liam snorts, shuts his eyes and soaks Zayn in. “That was shit.”

“Least I’m honest,” Zayn argues, still soft and the shyness Liam remembers from a hundred nights ago returns in this one vulnerable moment.

Liam doesn’t reply and waits a whole thirty seconds before Zayn presses their lips together, kisses away his smirk and drags a few other words – _‘she’s_ yours _and I think so am I’_ and _‘baba means father’_ and _‘that’s what you are, what you’ve always been’_ – that Liam hopes to retain for years to come but he settles on the way Zayn kisses him like he’s trying to stich something a little deeper to Liam’s mouth.

“Stay,” Liam says between harsh breaths with his fingers buried in Zayn’s hair, “in my bed. In _our_ bed. More than just tonight.”

Zayn chuckles with his tongue pressing sensitively to Liam’s bottom lip. “S’that an invitation, babe? Remember my best mate says I’m horrible at these things.”

“I remember,” Liam groans, swallowing down a wily laugh he knows he’ll never be able to take back. “He said a lot of things. Quite the brilliant lad, that one.”

 _And he said one day we’d fall arse over tit for each other and realize we’re awful at hating each other,_ he thinks but he doesn’t say it. He kisses Zayn back, for the thrill and the rush and the way his heart palpitates so loudly.

Zayn mewls and shoves him further into the wall to slide an obscene tongue past his teeth and they get caught in the tide so easily that neither one of them bothers to swim away.

 

(*)

 

And, that night, when the city around them is finally quiet and the fairy lights around the buildings burn bright like the stars and Lily’s snoring in the crook of Tricia’s neck while Karen cuddles into a massive pile of blankets, Liam lets Zayn open him carefully with his fingers coated in excessive lube, with the tip of his pretty pink tongue, and then with the width of his cock. He twists his fingers into the sheets and writhes beneath him and their choked moans are kissed off with fervent mouths. They push and pull into a rhythm and it’s slow, slow to steady Liam’s pants and for the poetry Zayn floats off his lips and stings to Liam’s neck. They rock into the mattress and smile through kisses that bruise lips and Liam slicks the sheets with his come, untouched, with his teeth sunken into the tendons of Zayn’s neck and he doesn’t complain, not once, when Zayn comes inside of him.

No, he lets Zayn press him back down into those sweaty sheets and curls his fingers into Zayn’s hair while systematically trying to retrain his lungs to breathe normally.

He curves an arm around Zayn’s waist and keeps him inside, throbbing, and lets his thighs tremble around Zayn’s hips.

He smiles into the kiss Zayn offers and lets that dizzy feeling run its course while Zayn scribbles sonnets into his skin and whispers a _‘they’d kill us for waiting this damn long’_ into the shell of his ear.

He smiles and doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t need to.

 

(*)

 

 _There were no survivors_.

In the morning, when the city still echoes a soft whisper and Zayn’s tangled around him between their sheets with Lily at the foot of the bed, staining the cotton with her jelly cups while watching the telly, he thinks they were so wrong.

They were wrong because they survived. He survived. This _thing_ – that’s still nameless and still just between them even if the world is peaking into the hollow of their touches and trying to interpret it – between them survived and Lily, grinning stupidly with her legs kicking in the air and her humming the sweet chorus of a Fleetwood Mac song, survived.

“I don’t ever plan to move,” Zayn moans sleepily, smiling against Liam’s bare chest and sneaking playful fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs. “Think I can get a degree like this?”

Liam snorts, threads his fingers into Zayn’s mussed hair until he can stroke his scalp. He sighs, satiated, before their legs tangle under the sheets. There’s a tune in his head that he can’t seem to get rid of and it makes him think of Ant, of Jade, of the start of all of this: _baby I’m yours and I’ll be yours until the stars fall from the skies_.

“You’re an idiot,” he mumbles, ducking his head to bury his mouth into Zayn’s hair and sniff at his still sex-stained skin and he loses himself in Zayn’s even breathing.

Lily crawls up their mountain of limbs when Zayn huffs out a laugh and wedges herself under one of Zayn’s arms, rubbing tiny fingers at the end of Liam’s nose and smiling into the shadows of Zayn’s neck. She giggles at the soft purr of _‘in other words, until I die’_ and Zayn mumbles the _‘baby I’m yours until the poets run out of rhymes’_ with this inescapable grin that pins Liam to the mattress.

“Teaching,” Zayn says, out of nowhere, and the rasp of his sleep-heavy voice curls inside of Liam. He hides his face in Liam’s collarbone with his fingers sweeping through Lily’s hair before he attaches, confidently, “I’ve decided on teaching for a core study. And I’ve also decided on us, if that’s okay with you?”

Liam raises his brow, leans back enough to see the hummingbird gold behind those thick lashes while Zayn chews at his lip.

“I’ve sorted out that I want to adopt her and I’ve already called Paul, sat with our mums to help out,” he adds, swallowing until that little stutter in his voice flees.

He squeezes auxiliary fingers around Liam’s wrist, right over the spot he gripped on the couch with his cock in Liam’s throat and just beneath that space of skin he held when he lead Liam and Lily to the back of the coffee shop with a smile. He scratches an _SOS_ there, something hopeful in his eyes and Liam’s chest stretches so wide for the girth of his heart.

“And I’ll go with you,” he whispers, leaning up, repeating the words against Liam’s mouth until it turns into a promise. “All the way to America and places I don’t know because, you arsehole, I can’t stick this out without your stupid face.”

Liam grins, refuses to fight the kiss Zayn presses to his mouth. He bites at Zayn’s lower lip and drags slow fingers down his spine until he’s certain goosebumps follow the trail.

“I still hate you,” Zayn mumbles, still tucked close with the sheets sliding away and Lily fitting closer to kiss at their cheeks.

Liam laughs, shoves at Zayn’s shoulder until he’s off balance and catches him immediately with their lips brushing.

“Hate you too,” he replies, a little louder, and he thinks it’s sounds a lot like _‘I love you’_ and he turns away to hide his blush immediately, except Zayn’s fingers catch on his chin and they stare at each other until they both can’t stop thinking the same thing.

It’s three words with a different sort of meaning to most people and, he thinks, it’s so appropriate for them.

He presses in closer to Zayn and hauls Lily into their circle and laughs through the messy kisses they both shove to his chin and cheeks. He curls around them – _his daughter, his something_ – and wastes away with the Arctic Monkeys in the background and he can’t help but think of Ant and Jade or this little world they created years ago.

No, he whispers a _‘and I’ll be yours until two and two is three’_ and smiles at the way two sets of eyes look up at him amusedly. He falters and slides further into the ocean of sheets and he’s so, so grateful that Lily and Zayn are there to rescue him.

And he’s certain whatever spark of love they created in a rundown pub with their best mates surrounding them survived long enough for them to name it.

 _Lily_.

And _‘I’m sorry for your loss’_ feels so dishonest because he _gained_ an _‘us’_ and a daughter and three bodies tangled in his bedroom – and in his heart – and he’ll willingly tell the world that, out loud.

**Author's Note:**

> Too boring? Too descriptive? I'm a complete wreck over this one but hopefully I did okay by the anon on tumblr who asked me for another kid fic. I know it's not exactly like the film but I think the vision in my head came to life here.
> 
> Seriously, thank you to anyone who reads this, comments or leaves kudos. I'm nervous about my writing all of the time but the support I get from this site is amazing. I cannot express my gratitude in simple words.
> 
> This is for you, reader -- may you one day find your Lily and your Zayn too ;)


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